


Help Wanted

by Carpe Natem (Demeanor)



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Drinking, Eldritch, Frenemies, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Character Death, Religious Abuse, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, bosses from the game, cultist shit, grumpy dismas, pretty much the whole gang - Freeform, reymus, slower than slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 134,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24914653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeanor/pseuds/Carpe%20Natem
Summary: It should have been an easy job. The Help Wanted poster claimed he just needed to escort some kid from point A to point B, which was just a quick carriage ride down the Old Road to the Hamlet. If he had to put up with a holier-than-thou Crusader and crazed Caretaker in the interim, so be it. He never turned away easy money.Unfortunately, nothing in Dismas' life was ever easy.
Relationships: Dismas/Reynauld (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 315
Kudos: 240





	1. Light

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still in need of a beta for this and potentially more graphic bits later, sos

**1\. Light**

The lettering was in bright red ink with big bold letters. Eye-catching, but not what drew Dismas’ attention. His dark eyes were reading and rereading the reward at the bottom of the page, convinced there must be some kind of error for the job it entailed. 

HELP WANTED

ESCORT NEEDED TO THE HAMLET

THROUGH THE OLD ROAD - URGENT

The poster hung on the old rickety board next to the entrance of the local tavern Dismas was on his way into. There was a name and location in smaller print; whoever posted this was waiting just inside the bar, apparently. Dismas had intended to spend his meager gold on getting piss-drunk enough to pass out somewhere, but that could wait. Jobs were a dime a dozen around these parts, but they were rarely worth their pay. Not when you were an experienced highwayman who made his fortunes by helping others part with theirs. But this. This was too good to pass up.

He grabbed the poster and tore it from the bulletin board -- no way was he going to risk someone else seeing it -- then shoved the parchment in his fur-lined canvas jacket and pushed open the worn, wooden door. 

Judging by the exterior of the building, inside the tavern was exactly what Dismas had been expecting. Dim, dank, and unwelcoming with seedy characters surrounding tables full of empty beer mugs. Dismas felt a roomful of eyes watching him as he let the door swing shut behind him and was comforted by the weight of his knife and gun on his hips. He looked around, eyes roaming the tables and sizing up the building. The windows were stained with smoke and grime, making them impossible to see through. Outside, Dismas could hear the wind picking up and causing the old hardwood beams to groan. The bartender was smoking a tobacco pipe and made no effort to acknowledge his presence, and soon the other probing gazes turned away as well.

Dismas snorted. _You’ve seen one shithole tavern, you’ve seen ‘em all._ What caught his attention was a table in the corner with a very misplaced pair of men. One was a young man, maybe early 20s if that old, hunched over a full beer and looking like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world. His face was clean, blond locks full and lush, with a crisp white bowtie at his neck. His head was bowed so a cloak hid most of his face, but the cloak did nothing to obscure just how obviously out-of-place this man was amid the muck and despair. 

The man next to him… was a _Crusader_.

“Feh.” Dismas scowled. He had no love for the holy men and their holy wars. It’s not that Dismas was above killing, not by a long shot. But using the Light as a means to an end left a bad taste in his mouth when that end was bloodshed. And so _much_ bloodshed. The Crusades ended nearly a decade ago and all of the towns raided and pillaged by the likes of this man still hadn’t recovered. Not unlike this town, actually. That made Dismas wonder -- _what is a Crusader even doing here? Other than getting in the way of this job. Shouldn’t he be off praying in an abbey somewhere?_

Both men looked up at his approach, candlelight glinting off the Crusader’s helm. “Do you need something?” he asked gruffly, deep voice graveling in his armor.

Dismas ignored him and instead grabbed the parchment from his pocket, spreading it flat on the table in front of the younger man in one smooth motion. He looked from the poster up to Dismas, who then asked, “This yours?”

“It is.” His voice sounded unsure. How old even was this kid?

“I want in,” Dismas said immediately. The Old Road was a quick route through the Weald from here to the Hamlet, and if the kid was really willing to part with a few thousand gold for a simple escort then who was Dismas to not oblige him? He was already wondering where the nearest gambling hall might be after this job paid out when the Crusader cleared his throat. 

“I’m afraid this job is already taken, friend,” came the gruff voice, tone far less genial than the words implied. “Move along.”

Eyebrow arched, Dismas finally turned to face the armored man. He looked him up and down, noticeably, sizing him up. He was broad and thick, and though it could have been in part due to his armor, he seemed solid and impenetrable -- especially compared to Dismas’ own lean body covered in leather and canvas. Dismas knew better, though. No one was impenetrable, and those who tried to appear that way were usually the exact opposite under all that bravado. He huffed a laugh, short and humorless. He could intimidate this man, he was sure.

“I wasn’t asking.”

The Crusader sat up straighter, shoulders squared, the holy emblem on his surcoat unfurling. “Nor was I, _friend_.”

Dismas smiled behind his cowl at the challenge and unsheathed his dirk. “I’m no friend,” he said, voice low. With a fluid thrust, Dismas pulled out the knife and slammed it into the wood table, through the Help Wanted poster. It had been a while since his brigand days, but he was no stranger to bar fights and felt that thrill rush through him as he leered over the Crusader, threateningly. “I’m here for the job, one way or another.” 

The implication hung between them, tense and coiled, and the young dandy to the side was fidgeting nervously. “Now, sirs...” 

Intimidation was always easy. Dismas just had a look about him, a _don’t fuck with me_ look that seemed to get him far enough in life. It made threats and scare tactics all the more effortless, and usually ended with him getting his way while avoiding needless violence. Every so often, though, he was faced with a person bullheaded enough not to heed his scowling bluster which usually resulted in some bruises and a broken nose on someone’s part (sometimes his own, though he would never readily admit to that).

Now was apparently one of those times. The big man in clinking armor rose to standing, towering over the highwayman by almost a head, and his heavy armored hand plopped on top of the knife Dismas had rutted into the table. Dismas could feel the cool metal of the gauntlets through his leather gloves, but he didn’t move. 

“Is this job really worth risking your life for?” came the low ringing of the Crusader’s voice. They were almost chest to chest, and Dismas could feel the tremor of his voice ringing through his armor.

He smirked, and he knew the big guy could see it from his position over him. “I’ve risked it for a lot less.”

“Cocky. Careless.” More rumbling. They stared at each other -- or rather, Dismas stared at the slits in the man’s helm and could feel the heavy stare back -- for just a few heartbeats before either of them moved. Indeed, before they _both_ moved, simultaneously, Dismas’ lightning-quick reflexes somehow matched by this holy man’s intuition. In a mere moment, Dismas had his flintlock pressed up under the helmet, at whatever soft flesh might be exposed there at his neck. He felt the sharp pressure of something on his gut not a second later and glanced down. A knife -- _his own knife_ \-- was there pressed to his stomach against his leathers. He mentally cursed himself for sharpening his dirk this morning as it split the hardened seams of his leathers.

“You’re quick,” Dismas muttered, then spat, “For a _holy_ man.”

He was honored with a soft chuckle, which echoed above him. “So I’ve been told. Though never from a lowly _thief_.”

Dismas had heard that same scorn before more times than he could count, but he was in no mood for it right now. Especially not from _him_. With a sneer, he pressed his pistol against the man’s neck harder. 

“Crusader scum.”

“Highway filth.”

“Gentlemen!” came a voice to their side, which broke their glowering. Dismas kept the barrel of his flintlock where it was, hand steady, though he felt the knife-tip disappear from his abdomen. The young man next to them had his ripped flyer in hand and was waving it at them. “I say, I still need an escort, which won’t do me any good if you kill each other before we even leave. There’s no reason I can’t take you both on for the job. Does that sound fair?”

Reluctantly, Dismas turned back to the towering Crusader, who did the same. A moment passed in taut silence, but eventually Dismas lowered his gun from the man’s throat and holstered it with a nod. The Crusader nodded back, and the younger man at their side breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Wonderful! The more, the merrier, I always say. I’m honestly not too familiar with this area, which probably isn’t a good look seeing as how I’m the Heir and all --”

Dismas cut him off -- the ‘Heir’ or whomever he was. “When do we leave for the Hamlet?”

The Heir stopped short and looked out of one of the windows. Tried to, anyway. It had been dusk when Dismas finally happened upon this small town, so he knew it was already dark out by now. “Well… It’s getting pretty late. I’d like to start out first thing in the morning, if that’s okay with you.”

The Crusader turned towards the Heir in response and spoke, curt. “Will you be paying for our rooms, then?” He took the question right out of Dismas’ mouth.

“I…” That tense silence returned as the Heir anxiously steepled his fingers, pursing his lips thoughtfully for a moment. “I hadn’t planned on budgeting for that. I suppose I could maybe get _one_ room, if you’d be willing to share for the night.”

Dismas heard a derisive snort within the metal helmet next to him, and he furrowed his brow in agreement. “Then we’re leaving tonight,” Dismas said.

“But!” The Heir’s eyes flicked again to the window, useless. “Wouldn’t it be safer…?”

Blessedly, the Crusader shook his heavy-looking head at the blond man. “The time of day makes no difference to brigands. Which is why you’ve hired us, isn’t it? It’s just a few hours away by carriage. The sooner we get you there, the sooner we can be done with this.”

_And the sooner we get paid_ , Dismas thought. _Maybe this tin can isn’t as empty-headed as the rest of his kind._

The Heir nodded ruefully, fingers still fidgeting. By the Light, Dismas was getting old. He was only in his 30s, but it already felt like two lifetimes and a half had passed him by. Vaguely, he wondered how old the Crusader really was, and if he was feeling the same burden talking to this pampered kid. If how fast he moved in that armor was any indication, he couldn’t have been _that_ old. It struck him just then that he had lost track of his trusty dirk. He glanced at the table before remembering that the Crusader had held it last (against his own abdomen, no less) and stuck out his hand to him, palm up.

The Crusader must have forgotten, too, because he glanced down at Dismas’ gloved hand and grabbed it with his own, shaking it firmly. “The name’s Reynauld.” Dismas quirked a thin eyebrow at that, refusing to return the handshake.

“My knife.”

The shaking stopped, but this _Reynauld_ prick didn’t let go. “I beg pardon?”

“My knife,” Dismas repeated, exasperated. “The one you were stabbing me with? I know you have it.” 

Reynauld made a ‘ _tch_ ’ sound and dug into his hauberk before pulling out the familiar knife. Dismas’ mouth hung open slightly, hidden behind his red neckerchief, as he grabbed it from him. _What’s with this guy?_ A holy man, born of the Eternal Flame and Sacred Light and all that crap, out running around doing dirty grunt work instead of begging for forgiveness alone in a cloister somewhere, or flaying himself alive in the name of his Nameless God. And now, he was just caught red handed stealing from a thief. 

Dismas shook his head in disbelief. He just couldn’t get a good read on the guy, but he didn’t need to. Not really. They would have a quick, hopefully painless carriage ride with this Heir pomp, get paid their thousands of gold, then go their separate ways and this _Reynauld_ guy could steal from whomever he pleased, as long as it wasn’t him.

He sheathed his dirk on his hip and turned towards the door. “I’ll go get the carriage.”

~~~~

At this time of night, it was slim pickings. 

Dismas knew he wouldn’t get the cream of the crop when he left the tavern. The waxing moon was high in the sky by the time he finally found someone willing to make the journey down the Old Road to the Hamlet. It was an old wagon with rickety-looking wheels and an even ricketier-looking stagecoach driver. He was withered and balding on top and wore a dusty, moth-eaten overcoat that had tarnished brass studs on the collar. When he turned at Dismas’ approach, he grinned wide with a stained-yellow Cheshire smile, large crooked teeth and cracked lips splitting his face. 

“Somewhere to be tonight?” the coachman asked with a creaky voice. 

“The Hamlet.”

The man bobbed his head up and down, still smiling that piss-colored smile. “Through the Old Road, I presume?” When Dismas nodded, the man broke into a cackle, face up towards the nearly-full moon, eyes bright. “The Old Road will take you to _Hell!_ ” he shouted to the moon gleefully. “And I will be your humble ferry.” 

He bent in a low bow, and Dismas shifted uncomfortably. Maybe waiting until morning wasn’t such a bad idea after all, if it meant finding a stagecoach that wasn’t this… mad. The usual fare of people around these parts were a few dozen cards short of a full deck -- not that Dismas had any room to judge -- but this wagon driver reeked like a whole different breed of crazy. Otherworldly, maybe. Dangerous, almost. It made Dismas’ mental alarm bells roar, made him hesitate. His gut instinct screamed ‘ _run now and don’t turn back_ ’. But the thought of having to share a room with that ‘holier-than-thou’ Crusader with his sticky fingers quickly made his decision for him. Dismas would sooner fight off some whackjob trying to steal his kidneys than share a bed with a man who sold his soul to the Light in exchange for holy murder. 

“Okay. How much?” Dismas asked and pulled out his coin purse.

The stagecoach driver shook his head, mouth still stretched wide around his teeth. “No charge.”

And his bells were ringing again, loudly. Nothing was free, especially not around here. Dismas eyed the wagon, its wheels seemingly held on by wishful thinking, its horses pale and underfed and matted. Their mangy tails flicked back and forth, swatting at the flies that plagued them. In all honesty, this was barely more than a safety hazard on wheels that Dismas would have begrudged paying for, but nothing was ever offered for free. There was a catch here.

“No charge?” Dismas repeated, skeptical.

“I was already planning to head back to the Hamlet when you showed up,” he explained in his rusty voice. A quick scan of the coach showed he was telling the truth, a travel bag tied to the top, rations in the driver box. “I want to get back home before the full moon, you see.”

Dismas glanced up at the moon, wondering what this man’s obsession with it was. He’d actually prefer not to find out. “There are others in my party,” he warned.

“I have plenty of room, and the Hamlet needs all the fresh meat it can get.” The man’s smile returned to his gaunt face, and for the millionth time Dismas considered his other options. Sleeping on a dirty hardwood floor was sounding better and better compared to this. Hell, falling on his own blade was sounding better than this. He turned towards the tavern and saw Reynauld and the Heir standing outside, watching impatiently. _Reynauld_ was there with his arms crossed, staring at him. Fine. Dismas whistled and waved them over. He trusted his instincts, but he also trusted his quick reflexes in case this lunatic tried anything. 

Best to just get this over with.

~~~~~

“In this gaping abyss, you will find your redemption!” 

The coachman called out to nothing above them for the umpteenth time. The wagon rocked and swayed on the bumpy path of the Old Road, rattling their bones. The Heir was clutching at his bowtie, no longer crisp and pristine under his worrying hands, while looking out the window. Reynauld was seated next to the kid, stiff as a board which Dismas was starting to realize was normal for him. He sat across from the two of them, slouched down with his back pressed against the front of the coach. Behind him, Dismas could hear the old man still crowing in hysterics. 

“You couldn’t have found someone a little more… sane?” The Heir asked cautiously, as if the driver would hear him. As if he would somehow be surprised and take offense that his sanity was being called into question. The cabin shook around them as they sped down the path.

Dismas crossed his arms. “Nope.”

The Heir looked to Reynauld for confirmation, which irked Dismas more than he cared to admit. But the Crusader inclined his head and said, “Most stagecoaches avoid going through the Weald at night.” 

“And, anyway,” Dismas said roughly as the young Heir wilted. “Free is a hard bargain to pass up on.”

The blond man shrugged his shoulders uselessly. “I would’ve been happy to pay for something a little…” he trailed off as the mad reinsman belted out a loud cackle, which made the horses whinny. “Quieter.”

Dismas sat up straight and uncrossed his arms at that. “Oh, but you’re stingy on getting us each a room?”

A loud bump, a hard shake. They were picking up speed now, and Dismas suddenly wished he hadn’t chosen the seat that faced backwards. The Heir picked at his hood nervously, staring out the window as the dark silhouette of the mushroom forest passed by in quick blurs. Worry lined his pale, round face reflected in the glass. “I couldn’t have afforded two extra rooms, unfortunately. I’m kind of… broke. At the moment.”

“Broke?” It was Reynauld’s turn to sit up straighter, gauntleted hands balled into fists. He turned to the kid, managing to tower over the younger man even while sitting, while Dismas leaned forward and put his hand on his holster. The Heir looked between the two, panicked and hands up as they both stared him down. 

“J-Just for the moment!” he said quickly. “You see, my great uncle was the lord of the estate here. He had been unwell these past few months, and had summoned me to the Hamlet to take up his title. My uncle was quite wealthy, but unfortunately never married. He was always a little… touched in the head, you see, ha ha,” he chuckled nervously. “That left me as his sole heir.” They listened to him ramble about his family affairs a bit longer before Dismas finally cut in.

“Will you have the money or not, kid?”

“Yes!” the Heir insisted. His pristine hands were still raised defensively. “Uncle would have been thrilled to see me arrive safe with an escort, I’m sure, and his fortune knows no bounds.”

They hit another hole, hard and fast, and the whole structure groaned with the strain. The wheels felt like they were shaking from side to side and caused the three of them to lurch. The horses were wild, not slowing at all while the crazy old reinsman shouted, “There is a sickness in these aged, pitted cobblestones! Faster, my pets!”

The Heir’s face turned a shade whiter, blond locks bouncing with the shaking coach. Reynauld bowed his head and said a soft prayer to the space between them -- _Light seize me and bless us all, he softly rumbled over and over_ \-- and Dismas felt his brow furrow in disgust.

“You’re just as bad as he is, you know.”

Reynauld stopped his gentle prayer and lifted his head to Dismas, voice now rigid. “No, I don’t. Please explain.”

“You both chant away to the void, hoping to hear back,” he answered sourly, feeling some strange satisfaction at how Reynauld’s hands clenched tight at his knees. Who would’ve thought it was _this_ easy to get under the Crusader’s skin? The man made it effortless and Dismas felt a wicked smile creep behind his cowl as he propped his feet up on the opposite seat, between the two other men and stretched out, legs crossed at the ankle. “You might as well start howling to the moon for all the good it does you.” With that, Dismas leaned his head back against the coach wall and howled loudly, hearing the deranged driver echo him outside.

He was answered with an angry grunt, his feet getting shoved roughly off the seat, and he felt self-satisfied. “You’d better pray you never need a healer,” growled Reynauld.

“Tch, I’d rather leave the praying to you, zealot,” Dismas said with a smirk. How he wished he could see the Crusader’s face. He imagined it was some scarred, aged face with paper-skin and wispy white hairs, cheeks red and jaw set in fury hidden just under his holy helmet. Before Reynauld could respond, the carriage lurched again, fishtailing side to side now, and the horses screamed. 

The Heir was trying to find a handhold as the three were thrown with the force of the stagecoach losing control. “I don’t think a little prayer or two could hurt!” he squeaked out.

A horrific creak filled the cabin as they swerved to the side again, followed by a blood-chilling _SNAP_ when the wheel dislodged beneath them. The stagecoach tilted back and the crazed driver screamed out, “There can be no bravery without madness!” 

And then impact.

The carriage flew back and hit the crumbling cobblestones with a loud crash, wood splintering and horses crying out as they fell with the coach. Dismas was jerked forward and pitched into Reynauld, _hard_. It was like diving face-first into a brick wall and it made him yelp, but then the stagecoach tilted and started tumbling off the path. It was a whirlwind of pain and confusion, armored and leathered limbs flying as the three men were tossed like ragdolls. The windows shattered and the doors fractured in, spraying splinters and glass. Dismas had enough sense to duck behind his cowl, but he wasn’t sure what would become of their escort. 

All he knew was that he had better fucking get his money if they had to walk him the rest of the way.

After a few blurred moments, the world finally stilled, discombobulated but unmoving. They were upside down, parked on the hood of the coach, glass and wood surrounding them like some shitty mosaic. Dismas’ whole body was stiff and hurt to move, but other than a few pricks of pain and a killer headache, he seemed fine. He opened his eyes slowly, head pounding, and was met with the symbol of the Light filling his vision. The Crusader. _Great_. At least he wasn’t laying on glass. The man wasn’t moving.

Dismas cleared his throat and wheezed out, “You still alive in there or do I get to keep your share?”

Reynauld groaned underneath him and eventually lifted his head up, looking straight at him like he just noticed he was there. “Get off of me,” he rumbled, grabbing the front of Dismas’ coat and roughly shoving him to the side. He landed with an ‘ _oof_ ’ and heard the crunch of glass under his leathers.

A soft moan sounded to his left and he sat up to see that the kid was a little bloodier than he had hoped. Whoops. “You okay?”

The Heir groaned again and Dismas lifted him upright, trying to inspect him for wounds while Reynauld dug them out and looked around. The stagecoach was in ruins, the driver and the horses nowhere to be found. They were in the middle of the Old Road, still a ways away from the Hamlet. Fuck. With a sigh, he helped the kid to his feet, who had a shard of glass in his cheek and most likely a busted rib. Dismas went to remove the glass, but the Heir shied away. “Be gentle,” he pleaded.

“Sure,” said Dismas, then quickly ripped the glass out. The Heir gasped and grabbed his bleeding cheek, recoiling from the Highwayman.

“My face is ruined,” he cried out, looking at the blood trailing down his fingers.

Dismas rolled his eyes and dug out a piece of bandage from his pack, which he held out to the Heir. “That’s a boo boo, tops. Just hold this to it until the bleeding stops. I’m more worried about your rib.”

Reynauld came back to the wreckage, shaking his head. “No sign of the reinsman or the horses,” he said, confirming what Dismas already knew. They were fucked. He could only hope that the driver had gotten trampled as he fled and was bleeding out somewhere, alone in the rotting woods. “We have no choice but to walk the rest of the way.”

The Heir hiccuped pitifully as he held the cloth to his cheek, looking at the two of them. “Will it be safe?”

“No,” came Dismas’ curt reply. “That’s why we should leave now.”

The young man shivered in the night, but nodded and they collected their meager belongings. Dismas knew the kid was in no shape to fight (not that he was before the wreck, either) so it would be on him and the Crusader to fend off any animals or brigainds. Luckily, humans were the worst things they had to worry about in these abysmal woods, and Dismas was confident in dealing with those. 

“Let the Holy Light be with us,” Reynauld quietly prayed, and Dismas shook his head. He retrieved their one and only torch that survived the crash and lit it, ensconcing them in it’s soft, flickering glow.

“This is the only light with us now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about 500 hours into the game now and haven't read any other Reymas work, and was disappointed by the small amount of it. So here's my contribution, that loosely follows my playthrough. Enjoy!


	2. Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did yall know that you can run into the Shambler in the tutorial?
> 
> 'cause I just started a new game and found out the hard way. Whoops.

**2\. Dark**

“Brigands have the run of these lanes,” Dismas spoke, the three of them huddled within the light of the torch. The Heir had been forced to hold it since he couldn’t fight, and Dismas had convinced them to walk along a side path parallel instead of on the main road where the light could be seen. He knew firsthand how dangerous it was traveling at night, on foot and out in the open. He had taken advantage of that same vulnerability from others in the past, in another life. “Let us keep to the side path, the Hamlet is just ahead.”

Reynauld snorted next to him. “Aren’t these degenerates of your company? Couldn’t you simply… _talk_ them out of attacking us?”

Dismas shot him a glare over his neckerchief and squared his shoulders. “These haven’t been my people for a long time.”

“Hmph. Could have fooled me.” 

The words were quiet, but not quiet enough. He turned fully towards Reynauld, hand on his dirk, itching for a fight. The Crusader stared at him through those black slits in his helm and placed his hand on his rusty longsword in response. His other hand traced the holy cross on his surcoat -- maybe he was itching for a fight, too. Dismas would be happy to indulge him; more money for him once they escaped out of this Old Road Hell. 

“Typical Crusader, picking fights and then hiding behind his Holy Symbol of Horseshit,” he spat. 

Reynauld inched closer, hand now clenched around the hilt of his sword. Dismas felt no satisfaction from riling him up this time -- merely distaste for the man and his religion. “Tell me, thief, did it sting your skin when you lay against it earlier? You looked content enough.” There was a rude smile in his voice that held certain implications that Dismas didn’t want to think about. 

Raising a hand to his head, where his forehead had connected with the chin of the man’s helmet, Dismas scowled. This guy was turning into a bigger headache than his armor had given him. “Content seeing you laid out on your ass, maybe.”

“Look! Over there!” 

The Heir’s exclamation cut off any retort Reynauld might have had, spiteful words dying in the air between them as they turned to where the Heir was pointing. Dismas froze, blood cooling at the sight of a makeshift tent outlined by the dying embers of a campfire. There were packs near the tent -- clearly the owners hadn’t gone far. He and Reynauld exchanged a look and nodded, slowly backing up together away from the still-warm camp.

“Oy!” a new voice came from behind them and they jumped, all three of them whipping around.

A cutthroat looking just as surprised as they were had stopped just at the edge of the camp, his pants still partially undone. Dismas’ quick reflexes kicked in immediately and he lunged forward, hand wrapping around the cutthroat’s mouth to keep him from alerting any companions and other hand wrapping around his wrist, where he held a large knife. The cutthroat swiped up with his other hand, and in it a smaller dagger in an uppercut slice, narrowly missing Dismas’ eye as he moved his head to the side just in time. 

The struggling cutthroat pulled his arm back, as if to shank him, when Reynauld’s heavily built form came up behind the brigand and slammed the hilt of his sword down. Hard. Dismas winced, watching the cutthroat go limp and his eyes roll back after the stunning blow Reynauld delivered to the top of his head. If he wasn’t dead from _that_ , he’d certainly want to be when he woke up. Which he wouldn’t.

Dismas took aim with his flintlock, focused right between the brigand’s eyes for a quick and easy death, when Reynauld stopped him. He put his hand on the barrel and pushed it down, roughly.

“If there are others, I’m sure they’re close by,” he hissed.

Dismas’ eyebrow twitched agitatedly. He was right, of course, Dismas knew that. That’s part of what irked him so much. He heaved a sigh and grabbed the cutthroat’s knife instead, kneeling down for a far more hands on and… messy death. It felt crude to use the man’s own knife on him, but he’d rather not have to clean and re-polish his dirk afterwards if he could avoid it. Dismas finished the brigand off with a quick _slice_ and stood up.

Reynauld nodded at him, then turned around to the brigand’s tent. “Leave nothing unchecked. There is much to be found in forgotten places.”

“Hmph.” Dismas watched the Crusader pick through the abandoned packs, digging through every last compartment. _Don’t remember THAT particular saying in the scriptures_. He shrugged it off, though, never one to turn down some ill-begotten looting, and pushed into the tent. It was mostly empty, save for three sleeping rolls, two rations, some ammo, and a little bit of gold. Dismas smiled at that, the enticing glint of gold coins, and felt the sting on his cheek from where the cutthroat nicked him. He rubbed it with his coat sleeve and grabbed the loot to split between them.

Outside the tent, the Heir stood awkwardly over the dead cutthroat, bandage still pressed to his face and eyes wide. The three packs had been turned inside out and next to them was a small pile of supplies. Vials of holy water, more bandages, medicinal herbs and salves, and a single lone ruby created the pile. Dismas eyed it suspiciously, then looked up at Reynauld.

“That’s it?” he asked over his cowl.

The Crusader gave a stiff nod. “I take it nothing on your end either, thief?” His words were accusatory, and Dismas tossed the small purse into the pile with satisfaction. Whether or not Reynauld looked abashed, Dismas didn’t know. They split what little loot they had two ways, since the Heir refused any, and moved on from the camp.

~~~~~

The light was dimming.

The Heir held it higher and higher, trying to reach the light to the far corners of the forest as they walked. “It’s nearly out,” he whispered, voice wavering. 

“We’re almost there,” responded Reynauld, ever the stalwart. “I can see it just past this hill.”

“And it’s almost daybreak,” Dismas added. He had been watching the horizon whenever the treeline broke, urging dawn to come faster as they walked deeper down the Old Road. There was something incredibly unsettling about this place, so he couldn’t blame the Heir for being on edge. Something pulled at his subconscious, churned his anxiety out here. Dismas had been on dozens, if not hundreds, of nighttime raids -- up to his very last ambush. Even on that terrible night, years ago, he had never felt such disquiet before. 

No wonder the stagecoaches avoided the Old Road.

No wonder the driver was mad.

Dismas shook himself. No use in getting all worked up over what’s probably nothing. Those mental alarms were going haywire, cracking him around the edges, but he held together. He needed to. There was nothing out here more terrifying than them, he repeated to himself. 

The light dimmed further.

_It’s nothing_ , he thought. The chill in his bones, the thrum of his heart, staring out at the dark abyss beyond the light; _it’s nothing_. Still, he creeped closer to the torch and noticed Reynauld doing the same, just barely. They were nearly shoulder to shoulder as they forced themselves on. _He feels it, too_.

CRASH.

In front of them, the darkness broke to two men -- more brigands -- barrelling through the forest at full speed. A giant bloodletter and a fusilier, white panicked faces in stark contrast to the darkness surrounding them. Dismas was at the ready immediately, gun and knife drawn, but they seemed to take Reynauld by surprise.

“Move, quickly!” The fusilier shouted as he raised his blunderbuss to Reynauld. It was a wild shot from that distance, but Dismas knew he intended to cover the Crusader in a dangerous blanket fire.

He swiftly took aim and shot the man, nearly taking his ear clean off. “Damn! I missed your eyes!” Dismas shouted, but it was enough to throw off the fusilier’s shot. The blunderbuss boomed as it missed its mark, shot flying into the trees randomly. It gave Reynauld enough time to stab at the bigger brigand with his rusty longsword, who deflected it easily. The bloodletter snarled a nasty smile at them and raised his spiked cat o’ nine tails over his head menacingly. The Heir yelled out and backed away, taking the light with him and entrenching them all in darkness. _Fuck_.

Dismas moved, but not quickly enough to avoid the whip slamming down on him. It bit into his shoulder and reopened the cut on his face, smearing wet blood down to his chin. _Great_. He was bleeding again. Right after he had finally staunched the flow of his last cut. Reynauld had seemingly managed to swipe the attack away and the two of them withdrew, back into the circle of flickering torchlight. 

“Let us pass if you want to live!” the fusilier bellowed from the dark. He inched forward until they could see his silhouette, holding what was left of his bleeding bit of ear with one hand and a large knife in the other. “I’m warning you!” 

Reynauld charged him, into the cusps of darkness, and dodged the knife easily. The fusilier fell with a pained gasp, lanced through with the Crusader’s sword and ended in a spray of dark blood. Dismas watched as the massive outline of the bloodletter then came hulking into view, towering over Reynauld who was struggling to free his blade from the brigand corpse. The bloodletter roared and raised his weapon, another heavy rain of whips oncoming. This close, Dismas knew the Crusader would take the full-force of those dreaded bloodied whips, and he quickly raised his flintlock, not even bothering to take aim.

Luckily, the bloodletter was a big target.

Blood gushed into the light from the brigand’s chest wound, gaping red with Dismas’ shot and misting Reynauld with gore. The big man fell with a heavy slam against the ground which echoed into the woods. Dismas heaved a huge sigh and looked at the two fallen men. They had seemed panicked, spooked by something out in the woods. He didn’t even bother trying to loot the two bodies and instead turned to face the Heir. The torch was nearly out. 

“Y-you’re face…” the younger man croaked out. “It’s bleeding.”

Dismas touched his cheek where the bloodletter had whipped him, then his shoulder. It wasn’t a dire wound, but it stung something fierce. “Hmph. Guess my face is ruined now, too.”

He heard a snort from behind, where Reynauld had finally dislodged his sword from the fusilier’s chest cavity. He swung it clean of the excess blood, then reached in his surcoat for something. A bandage. Awkwardly, he held it out to Dismas who raised an eyebrow at him. A white flag? It wasn’t like Dismas didn’t have his own tucked away.

“Your face is fine, just bloody.”

Huh. A compliment. Or at the very least, not a scathing insult or dismissal. Maybe it was his way of saying ‘hey thanks for saving my ass back there. Twice’. Well wasn’t Dismas just _touched_. 

“Ever the gentleman,” Dismas said sarcastically. Regardless, he took the bandage gratefully and held it to his cheek. 

Reynauld didn’t bite back. He seemed too on edge to get into it like they had been all night. Shaken from the encounter, maybe. Or shaken from that _something_ out there that gnawed at Dismas’ composure as well. Some creeping sense of dread and despair, just outside of their line of sight. The Crusader looked to the torch, which was still fading fast.

“We should get moving. Now.”

The urgency in his voice was real and Dismas felt it in his bones, the dire need to _get the fuck out of here_. Off the road and into town. But he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop the gallows humor from taking over in a time of stress, even as they urged on through the horrid black of night, and he elbowed Reynauld in the side. “Scared of the dark, priest?” he spoke undertone, matching the Crusader’s quickened pace.

Again, he sidestepped Dismas’ barbs. “The darkness holds much worse than mere trickery and bogeymen, thief.”

Dismas’ blood chilled again, heart pounding. He wanted to roll his eyes, wanted to scoff and laugh at the holy man’s superstitions. But he couldn’t. Not when it felt like they were surrounded by something… so malevolent. Otherworldly. Most highwaymen held to their own superstitions, carrying lucky trinkets and favored curios -- whatever was out here with them, smothering them in thick suspense, didn’t seem to give a damn for coins and belt buckles. Even the moon above seemed to darken and flicker. 

They were racing the torch now.

Reynauld picked up the pace as they shuffled on. The Heir’s heavy breathing filled the small circle of light as they nearly jogged through the forest, stumbling on vines and rocks. Dismas instinctively guided them closer to the main road, away from the enclosing thicket. The last thing they needed was for their paycheck to trip and drop the --

“Oof!” The Heir fell with a thump onto the loose cobblestones as the terrain changed underfoot. Time seemed to slow as the sliver of remaining light fell from his hand, down, down, until it clattered against the ground --

_No, NO_. The Hamlet was right there, just down the hill. They were so close. 

\-- and went out. 

...

Terror gripped him.

The last thing Dismas saw was Reynauld turning towards him, reaching as if to grab him and the Heir. It was too late. They were instantly shrouded in darkness, unnatural and unholy. The stars winked out of existence until even the moon left them, alone. Damned. Someone was shrieking -- was it their assailant? The Heir? Reynauld? _Was it Dismas himself?_

It was upon them instantly. A deep horror filled Dismas where his bones once were, blood turned to ice, and stench of rot filling his senses. He retched but found he couldn’t breathe and stood there, hopeless and dying, waiting for it to just _end_. 

They were being smothered out like the stars above.

When his vision did return, it came with a monstrous, writhing Eldritch mass creeping into existence like a waking nightmare. It was covered in a multitude of sores all open and weeping filth. Dark outer skin dripped off in chunks, exposing bloodied flesh beneath that had… eyes? Bulbs of glowing pink eyes opened one after another and all focused on him. On _him_. There was a sickening squelch as long appendages wormed from the outer skin -- barbed tentacles. 

Dismas tried to call out to the others but had no voice, no air in his body. He wanted to scrape his eyes clean, scream until his throat collapsed, wanted to just _end it_ than continue gaping at this monster. Terrified, his mind filled with a blackened madness as the vile creature shambled closer. It opened it’s cavernous maw, exposing dirty teeth and bleeding gums to him, and Dismas fell to his knees, hopeless. He thought back to the stagecoach driver, and the veiled warnings he had been shouting. 

_“In this gaping abyss, you will find your redemption!”_

No. It was too late. There was no redemption to be found here, not in this blighted Hell of the Old Road.

_“There can be no bravery without madness!”_

The reinsman’s words echoed in his head, but he shook them away. This was it. They were all doomed. After all these years of killing, robbing, and escaping the haunting shame of his past, the highwayman would finally get what he deserved. _This cursed place will be my tomb_ , he thought bitterly. _And even still, I can’t get their faces out of my head..._

A voice rang out through the madness, reaching Dismas through his despair.

“Nothing can extinguish the Light!”

Light sprang forth, cutting through the blackness and making the Eldritch horror shriek. It backed up with lashing tentacles from whatever had created the light. Dismas clenched his eyes shut, his eyes watering from the sudden brightness. That had been Reynauld’s voice. Slowly, Dismas raised a hand up to shield himself and cracked his eyes open. They were still watering, but he was able to see Reynauld’s thick form in front of him, between him and the screeching beast, holding something up -- a scroll?

“I am armored in more than just steel, beast!” Reynauld shouted, voice ringing in Dismas’ ears. The scroll flashed again -- Gods above, what was _on_ that thing? -- and the Shambler inched back further, hissing and twisting it’s jelly limbs at them. 

Dismas found his breath. Reynauld, shielding him and the Heir, single handedly pushing back this otherworldly creature…

It was _inspiring_.

Reynauld turned back to look at him, light outlining him, glinting off his armor, and raised his other hand. A thumbs up. Directed at _him_ , cowering on his knees in the dirt. “Do not despair, thief. You will survive -- I judge it so.”

Dismas swallowed and exhaled a shaky breath. He believed him. 

No sooner had Dismas grabbed his pistol from his belt, a small hopeful seed growing, than the Eldritch demon lashed out with a furious screech. A single long, thickly muscled tentacle whipped out faster than either of them could react and hooked around the Crusader’s waist while he was turned towards Dismas. The bulky appendage tightened around half of his armored torso and covered him in slime. It yanked, pulling Reynauld off his feet uselessly, scroll still alight with holy power as it streamed through the air behind his ragdoll body. 

He watched as Reynauld grabbed his sword, but the Shambler slammed him to the ground, winding him. The sword slipped from his fingers and clattered to the stones.

_Fuck, FUCK_. Dismas loaded his flintlock, hands clumsy and shaking and desperate, and took far more time than ever before. His eyes kept flicking to Reynauld’s stilled body being dragged across the ground. Gun finally cocked, he raised his hand and fired as the creature unhinged it’s jaw, opening wide as if -- as if to _swallow_ the Crusader whole. _FUCK_.

Three more shots, wild and ineffective, the bullets sinking into the outer flesh and dripping off wetly. It was useless. There was nothing he could do to save the Crusader. Shameful tears burned at his eyes as Dismas stood up and grabbed the Heir. There was nothing he could do. He hostlered the gun and heaved the blubbering Heir to his feet, roughly, shoving him towards where the Hamlet was still sleeping in the soft morning glow. This was mad. This was hopeless. Reynauld had saved him, but it was for naught. He was dead now. There was nothing Dismas could --

A loud shout stopped him from following the Heir to the Hamlet. 

Dismas turned back around and watched in horror as the Eldritch mouth yawned wider, sliding Reynauld closer and closer to its depths. The Crusader beat at the tentacle weakly with his armored fists, and Dismas heard him cry out again. 

His body reacted before he could even process what he was about to do. If he had any say in it, he would have stopped himself then and there, fled to safety like any sane person. Fled like he shouted at the Heir to do. But his legs were moving without his permission, hitting the ground at a full sprint towards Reynauld, _towards the maw of the insidious beast_. Towards certain death. His resolve was already broken, he had already given up. 

But Reynauld hadn’t.

Frantic, Dismas dove towards the Crusader. He had no idea what he was doing, he was already proven useless against this thing. What could a broken thief do against an unholy god that blackened the stars above? But Reynauld grasped him, tight and fervent, and Dismas found his breath again. 

He didn’t have a plan, but his instincts managed for him. “Reynauld,” he urged. “Your scroll! I need it.”

“It’s a holy relic!” 

The creature pulled harder, dragging them both like they weighed nothing. A holy relic. _For fuck’s sake_. In any other circumstance, Dismas would be rolling his eyes. “I’ll get you a new one someday. Do you want to live or not?!” The tentacle tightened around Reynauld’s midsection, squeezing, denting his armor inwards, and he finally handed him the old parchment scroll. 

_I hope this works_ , Dismas thought as he unsheathed his dagger. Hooking his arm around the Crusader still clinging to him, Dismas stabbed his dirk through the glowing scripture, impaling it on his knife which started to radiate the strange light as well. Suddenly, the creature’s appendage struck out and grabbed Dismas by the wrist, squeezing his knife hand like a vice. That same, horrified madness filled his mind at the mere touch, and the highwayman cried out as the barbs dug into his flesh. It _burned_ , it felt like an inferno in his wrist, a blazing Hellfire crawling up his arm and infecting his skin bit by bit. A death by inches.

His mind was blacking out, withdrawing and succumbing to darkness once more. The muscles in his right arm twisted in agony under the tentacle, still climbing up to his bicep. White hot anger overrode the insanity, and Dismas gritted his teeth. Clearly this pile of otherworldly shit didn’t know the first thing about highwaymen --

Sleight of hand.

“Get fucked by the Light, _demon scum_ ,” Dismas barked as he dropped the knife from his right hand and caught it with his left. He plunged the blessed dirk into the tentacle squeezing the life from Reynauld, fast as lightning and deep into the outer and inner flesh. 

An inhuman screech filled their ears while it recoiled, tossing them both to the hard cobblestones a few yards away. It writhed into itself, flesh and eyes all rolling in agony. Purple viscera rained on the ground around them, on the trees and stone, as it severed the injured tentacle from its body. It fell to the forest floor with a heavy thud, knife and scroll still embedded in it, and lashed about as though it had its own mind. 

Dismas rolled upright, wincing at the agony still burning in his arm. “Let’s go!”

“No!” Reynauld roared back. He was facing the squirming mass, much to Dismas’ horror. “We should finish it off while we have the chance!” 

Anger flashed in Dismas’ mind again. Did this guy have zero self-preservation? He grabbed Reynauld’s bulky pauldron and yanked him back with his remaining strength. The stupid Crusader barely budged, but at least he was looking down at Dismas now, away from the blood-curdling abomination. Trees were shaking with the creature’s thrashing, rocks and dirt spraying from the scarred earth. 

“I didn’t save your life just for you to throw it away now!”

A tense moment passed between them and Dismas was positive he’d be forced to leave him there, but blessedly Reynauld finally nodded. Dismas wasn’t sure why he even cared if the man lived or not. At one point in his life, he might have even killed the Crusader himself to reap extra riches, regardless of the sum gained.

But Dismas couldn’t shake the vision of Reynauld standing before him, resolve tested and overcome, luminous and inspiring. Facing down an unknown monster that spread despair like a roach infestation through their minds. Meanwhile, Dismas was all but sobbing in the dirt beneath him, a wretch who had fallen to the darkness. Hopeless. Ashamed. Reynauld had turned to him and chased the madness away; he had saved him, not just from the horrific Eldritch creation but from his own overbearing guilt. That was far more valuable than any gold or trinkets or profit. 

He still hated the man, of course. But now he also held... an admiration for him as well.

They ran together, the darkness abating as they fled from the creature. The stars returned and without the stifling black void of the Shambler, Dismas could see the first blush of morning teasing the horizon behind the Hamlet. It was breathtaking. He could have cried from relief alone if he weren’t so exhausted, stumbling down the path of the Old Road and away from Hell itself.

The Heir stood at the entrance of the Hamlet atop a cobblestone bridge. He looked shaken, but alive and well enough. Well enough to pay his dues, anyway. Reynauld and Dismas didn’t stop running from the woods until they reached the bridge as well. Dismas bowed over, hands on his knees, panting deeply like he’d never breathe right again, and Reynauld turned to watch behind them. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Dismas was confident that whatever Eldritch horror that creature was, it hadn’t given chase. Maybe it hated the sun, maybe it hated the town. Or maybe it hated _them_ for mutilating it. That made Dismas shiver. 

The three slowly relaxed as the sun continued to rise, bathing them in the early morning light. Dismas’ arm still stung where the Shambler had buried its barbs in his skin, but he didn’t have the stomach to look at it just yet and instead dug through his pack.

“What a fucking night. Anyone hungry?” asked Dismas, holding up the two rations from before. The Heir gave him a sheet-white shake of the head before he tossed last night’s dinner into the grass with a wet noise. _His loss_. Dismas threw the other ration to Reynauld and scarfed his own down like a last meal. It almost had been, really. The thought of that creature dragging them into the foul pits of it’s wide open maw, eating them both alive… 

Dismas dropped his bread, hand shaking, arm stinging bitterly. It had almost been the end. A painful, brutish end befitting a pathetic murderer and thief. The world swayed. Reynauld turned to grab him, but it was too late. The last thing Dismas saw was the ground rushing up to meet his face as he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dismas is such a drama queen. 
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated <3


	3. Blackmail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if this is cheesy yet, yipes

**3\. Blackmail**

It had been a hit like any other. The other Brigands in his crew marked the prospective target then sent a squad to deal with it.

A carriage with two men in the box seat -- an unarmed driver and someone riding shotgun, as per usual. The passenger was a corrupt lawmaker, he’d been told, undeserving of his wealth that he gained from the oppression of others, the desolation of property of the poor. It hit too close to home for him, and it was such a simple job that Dismas had insisted on going alone. They had been all too eager to let him.

That should have been his first hint.

The hit was quick and bloody, boring almost. Shouldn’t a bigshot politician have more security? He was picking the two bodies clean of their loot when he heard the carriage door unlatch and start to open. _A trap!_ his instincts screamed, his mental alarms sounding, and his answering bullet was automatic.

His trusty flintlock blasted a hole straight through the carriage window, blood misting the inside coach in a shimmering ruby red. _I never miss_ , he thought with satisfaction. His brigand company would get a kick out of this for sure, some slimy rich suit trying to sneak up on him. Trying to sneak up on a highwayman, of all people. To protect his fucking _wealth_. Selfish. Maybe he thought to reason with Dismas. _What a joke_. He stalked to the door of the coach and peered inside, hoping to find untold riches within --

Dismas awoke with a start, heart hammering. His naked body was clammy with sweat and the soft white sheet he lay under stuck to his skin.

_What…?_

He wheezed out a groan, loudly, at the pain in his head and arm. The last thing he remembered was breaking free from the Weald forest, running for his life and running from --

_That THING. That putrid, god-awful thing nearly swallowed us alive_. Dismas groaned again and leaned over the side of the crisp white bed he was in, vomiting on the floor. His head was spinning and he felt faint. Where was he…? The Hamlet, of course, but he’d be less surprised waking alone in a gutter somewhere. He couldn’t remember the last time he passed out and awoke in an actual bed. And why was his arm still burning?

“Quit fidgeting, you’ll disturb the leeches.” A curt, feminine voice caught his attention.

Dismas froze, mind processing her words, then tore off the bed linen to look at his right arm. Plump, wriggling black masses were attached to his skin all the way up to his shoulder, squirming like worms. Squirming… like… tentacles. His thoughts flashed back to Eldritch horror, the writhing, fleshy arms, covering them in slime and ooze, worming up their bodies. Dragging them towards death. He leaned over the side of the bed again and dry heaved, stomach now empty.

“I said stop that. My little angels don’t like to be moved when they’re hungry.”

A woman walked up to the side of his bed, garbed in the typical medic gear. The only difference was that a pouch hung from her waist with small dangling bulbs and her face was hidden by a long beaked-mask. She was a Plague Doctor.

Wrinkling his nose, Dismas said, “Good. Get them off of me.”

She tutted in response. “Not until they’re done feeding. And besides that, the venom hasn’t run its course just yet.” _Venom_. Dismas looked at his arm again, reluctantly. Angry red welts, countless, all ran along his arm like giant veins. It was horrific and painful and he was sure it would scar terribly.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

“You’re not,” the doctor said as she grabbed the back of his hand and forcefully turned his arm. She leaned over to examine the marks, or the leeches, or who the fuck knows. Plague Doctors always made Dismas uneasy -- they were superstitious in a whole different way than he knew. Where Dismas held his lucky coin close to his heart, a Plague Doctor might have a shrunken head or witch’s eye. This woman lived in a world of toxins and tinctures, dissection and disease. Highwaymen made incisions for profit, but Plague Doctors made theirs for profane curiosity. It was unnerving. A dead man should be burned or buried, not cut open and studied.

“I’ve never seen an infection like this,” she continued, slowly turning his arm back and forth. She hummed softly through her long mask. “Whatever blighted you, I wasn’t sure you’d survive. In fact, I’m still not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Dismas yanked his arm away. “Remove your precious parasites, witch.”

“It’s Plague Doctor. And they’re still feasting on your ichor,” she said, grabbing at the little leather-sewn bulbs on her belt. “So you won’t disturb them unless you want to be stunned again.”

Stun grenades. _Great_. This is why Dismas didn’t trust them. A long silence passed before Dismas dared to ask, “How long have I been out?”

“Forty-two hours.”

Dismas clenched his hands into fists around the sheets and gritted his teeth, head pounding. He had been sick and naked and bleeding out with this damned doctor for forty-two hours! What had he missed in that time? “Your maggots have been gnawing at my arm for nearly two days?!”

“Leeches,” corrected the doctor, curt and nonchalant. “The maggots finished their job eating away the dead flesh over a day ago. I managed to get you stable enough for the leeches to do their work after I got some food in you.” She turned to the mess he made on her floor and made an irritated noise. “You should be grateful that we could salvage that arm at all, really. It was in bad shape and removing it entirely would have saved you a great deal of agony in the long run.”

His stomach dropped at the thought. A highwayman with only his offhand -- he might as well have been dead. He needed to change the subject. “And who are you to be such a kind, thoughtful savior?”

“Paracelsus. The Hamlet’s Plague Doctor.”

_The Hamlet_. Nearly two days since they came out of those Light-forsaken woods, crawling with obscene horrors. What had become of the others? “Did you see two other men arrive with me?”

“Yes. They dropped you off in my care.”

“Why?”

Her response was matter-of-fact as she started to remove the leeches, one by one. Thank the fucking gods. “Because you were bleeding and dying and overall making a mess of things.”

The leeches came off with a sickening sucking sound and a sharp tug on his skin. Dismas couldn’t watch and instead looked around the room. “Where is my gun? And my other belongings?” _Like my clothes, for starters_.

“In the chest.” She paused, then peered at him down the nose of her long mask. “I didn’t take your gold, if that’s your concern.” Dismas exhaled through his nostrils -- it _had_ been a concern, not that he would ever say it out loud to someone that supposedly saved his life and fed him. He had earned that reward, more so than any other job before, and a fat pouch of gold is the least the universe owed him after facing down such atrocities.

“Then why save me?” he ventured. Nothing was ever free.

“The young Heir requested my services, and as a civil servant, I cannot deny the new Lord of the Estate.” Dismas had forgotten about that. He didn’t care to get wrapped up in the town’s politics, but knowing the sniveling brat in power might give him an edge around here. Maybe he could stay for a few more days. “Plus, he’s paying me. Handsomely.”

Dismas nodded, suddenly very tired. Paracelsus removed the last of her filthy leeches and placed them in a jar, which she pet lovingly before storing them away. “Your wounds aided my studies immensely. I’d give my left tit to see what inflicted you so.”

“No…” he answered. His voice was faraway and unfamiliar to him as he remembered the damnable Crusader being flung to the dirt like a toy after having stood his ground so heroically, so valiantly. It had made no difference in the end. “You wouldn’t.”

He fell asleep after that, restless and filled with nightmares.  
...

It was on the third day that Dismas could finally leave the Hamlet’s clinic, that Paracelsus deemed his blood ‘pure’ enough to get dressed and leave. She had warned him to avoid drinking, carnal pleasures, and overall debauchery -- all of which he planned to partake in immediately. “Your clean blood is scarce,” she had tutted at him. “If you want to avoid more time with my pets, then I suggest you lay low for the time being.”

To hell with her and her bloodsuckers. Dismas felt like a man who had just cheated death -- which he was, technically. That called for celebration.

The gold was pleasantly heavy in his coin purse as he all but skipped to the tavern. As he passed the town square, he caught a glimpse of the abbey in its grey dreary glory. Dismas slowed to a stop, staring at it.

_He_ was probably in there, crying and praying and bleeding away all his sins. It had been three days since their return, since their escape from unspeakable terrors. Of course he was in there, where else would he be other than bent prostrate in front of an altar, asking some Eternal Flame to wipe clean his memory? Or whatever the hell they did there. It’s not like Dismas had been expecting a visit from the Crusader, gods no. Especially not in the state he was in.

But a small, secret part of him wanted to _see_ the man, to know he hadn’t just gone and killed himself by some other stupid self-righteous means. Some idiotic martyrdom. Some lonely, Light-filled death in an unknown ditch somewhere, desolate and unheroic.

He also wanted to know that night wasn’t just a fever dream his mind concocted, and considered going inside to find Reynauld.

Dismas had gone into an abbey once before in his life, years back. The morning after that terrible, fateful night that haunted him so. _Screaming horses. Broken glass._ His last night as a brigand. He tried to pray their faces away from his mind, tried to commune with some higher power for forgiveness, even tried to be whipped and bled clean of his sins from that night. _Dead drivers. Red windows._ Nothing worked and if anything, only soured him further against the church. They were fine with taking his money while he was screaming for absolution that never came.

He turned from the abbey, bitter. Reynauld could go fuck off if he thought starving and crying in a pew was best for him. His own stress relief was in a different kind of church, filled with beers and warm bodies. And _gambling_. Gods, did Dismas miss the thrill of cards.

His right arm throbbed dully as he walked away from the temple, away from the man who stood up to a nameless demon of hate and fear and saved Dismas from madness. No, all Dismas needed were the scars seared into his body, still hot and alive with pain, to remind him of what was real. He needed that, and he needed the nearest woman who would trade coin for company.

~~~~~

“Strong beer, a game of chance, and companionship!” Dismas shouted, cheeks flushed with drink. “The rush of life!”

The others in the bar cheered him enthusiastically, and Dismas could have kissed that bloody Plague Doctor. If only he knew that bloodloss led to faster inebriety, there might not have been any blood left for the leeches. A pretty blonde thing sat in his lap, laughing at his dark jokes and sipping off his beer. Let her have her fill; he hadn’t even paid her yet.

He sat at the gambling table -- one of his many vices but quite possibly his favorite -- where a little sleight of hand never hurt his chances. He was winning an auspicious amount, though no one seemed to mind when he was also supplying the drinks all around.

_THIS is living_ , he thought drunkenly, beer sloshing as the lass cuddled in close and crooned in his ear. She ran her fingers through his hair, soft and freshly washed after his time spent in the clinic. Reynauld didn’t know what he was missing out on. Dismas must have said as much out loud, because the brothel girl smiled coyly up at him and crooned, “Would you like to invite him, then?”

Dismas recoiled, shrugging her pretty lips from his ear. He scowled at her and shook his head. “You’d have an easier time seducing a rock than you would trying to pull that stick from his sacred ass.”

She pouted her pink mouth and played with his hair still. “How would you know?”

_Feh_. His mood soured at her needless questions. His happy buzz was quickly gone, he had been too distracted by her to count the cards this hand, and he suddenly felt exhausted again. Maybe that witch at the clinic was right.

Pain shot up his right arm as the blonde girl pawed beneath his coat, trying to get under his shirt and raked her nails against his tortured raw skin. He hissed sharply and shot up, knocking her over onto her rump by accident. The festive mood around him slowed as she glared up at him, others in the bar turning to watch. _Shit!_ Dismas apologized profusely, more to deter the peeping eyes of everyone else in the tavern, and helped her back up to her feet. She scowled at him as she rubbed her backside.

“Might be I’d _rather_ find this friend of yours tonight,” said the girl as she flicked her long blonde hair at him. She walked away with a huff to find some other lap to sit in.

What was wrong with him? He had never thrown a woman to the floor, not outside of a consensual context anyway. It must be the blood, or lack thereof. He felt on edge, jittery and agitated. Pulling down his cowl, Dismas chugged the remainder of his beer and grabbed his pile of winnings, which wasn’t as large as he would have liked after buying so many rounds for people. Tomorrow would be better. He’d have more ‘pure blood’ to spare, more patience, more winnings. He wouldn’t stop playing until there was a mountain of coins for him and the next passing lass to fuck on, and he certainly wouldn’t throw her to the floor this time. Not unless she asked.

Dismas sighed and went to the barkeep to cash out his tab and pay for a room. He’d stick around for a few more days, he decided. A few more days of drinking and gambling and fucking (if he could manage to control himself, anyway) would do his mood wonders, he was sure. After everything he had witnessed lately, he deserved it. Right?

As he left, Dismas turned around and watched the bar. It was late, so the jovial mood was in full swing for such a depressive town.

He’d get a good night’s sleep, then would rejoin them tomorrow.

~~~~~

The days flew by, and still no Reynauld.

That was fine by Dismas. At this point, he’d be grateful to never see the blasted holy man again, especially after these past few nights of gluttony. He had gotten his gold, gotten his brothel girls, and the men in the gambling hall were starting to get suspicious of his unending winnings. It was high time Dismas moved on from this Hamlet. He had enough gold now to buy his own carriage if he felt like it, fill it with women and still have some left over. That might have been an exaggeration but if anything, he was making himself a target with his growing riches and wealth.

Yes, this would be his last night here, seated at the bar, hard liquor in his hand. He was considering whether or not he should bother saying goodbye to the Heir when a shadow fell over him. Back stiffening, he sighed. _Speak of the devil_ ; he knew who it was immediately.

_Hmph. ‘Bout time_. Of course it was the night he wrote him off. Dismas didn’t look up from his drink as he said, “Haven’t I had to suffer you enough?”

“Not just yet.” There was amusement in the deep voice.

Reynauld stepped up to the bar next to him, into the light, and Dismas side-eyed him up and down. Nonchalantly. Overtly unconcerned. The Crusader had new armor -- chain mail instead of a rusty hauberk -- glinting new and fresh in the candlelight between them. Dismas took a sip of his liquor, savoring the feel of fire, before he spoke again. “So they finally let you out, did they? Or did you tire of all their doom and gloom?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” said Reynauld.

Dismas grunted. “The cloisters. The transepts. The fucking _penance halls_ ,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing. “Pick your poison. You’ve been staying there, right? Spending your days and nights howling for atonement?” The Crusader chuckled again and it irked him. Like the man was talking with a child, patiently bemused.

“No, actually. I spend my mornings at the abbey praying and meditating, but my nights are spent here in the tavern,” he nodded towards the staircase in the corner that led up to the rooms. The stairs Dismas dragged himself up this past week, night after night.

_I would have seen you_ , Dismas nearly bit out before realizing Reynauld obviously wouldn’t have had his armor on if he had to get it replaced. He could have been hiding in plain sight all along without his armor. That made him uncomfortable, but he didn’t care to think about why. Light knows that high and mighty Reynauld wouldn’t have approved of Dismas’ preferred methods of relaxing, gambling, and overall debauchery. Whatever. The Crusader didn’t exactly have a high opinion of him to begin with, what’s a little extra derision for his nightly activities to top it off?

Instead, he just shrugged and said, “Didn’t know your kind was allowed in here. I ain’t sticking around to see if you get smote by the Light or not. I’m headed out first thing tomorrow.”

Silence. He was nearly done with his drink and ordered another one, not bothering to ask the scrupulous man next to him if he wanted one as well. Reynauld dug into his mail and pulled out a very full purse, the size of his fist, double knotted to keep the seams from bursting. It caught Dismas’ attention immediately and Reynauld seemed to notice. He placed it on the bartop between them; Dismas made no move to grab it.

“What’s this?”

“Half my share…” Reynauld trailed off, as if considering whether or not to say something else. He apparently decided to and added, “Plus the gold I found at the brigand camp.”

It felt like months ago, not just last week, that Dismas had eyed the holy man with suspicion after ransacking the campsite together. His eyes flicked up to Reynauld’s helmet, wondering if he was sheepish or contrite beneath it. Probably not. A kleptomaniac Crusader. It’s something Dismas would have considered hilarious and fucking ironic if it hadn’t been _him_ the man stole from -- twice now. “Feh. I knew it. Why?”

“Why did I steal it?”

“No, why are you here? What’s the _catch_?” Dismas rolled his eyes. Between him, the coach driver, and the Plague Doctor, he felt like a broken record. He was almost nervous about why Reynauld was approaching him now, with a bag of gold, and thought he might know why.

“I want you to come with me.” _Here we go_. Light be damned. Dismas just _knew_ it was going to be something shitty. He remained silent, so Reynauld continued, “Back out to the Weald.”

More silence passed between them. Dismas didn’t have any words for that. Or, rather, he had too many to say, most along the lines of _‘you absolute moron, you suicidal maniac, you sorry self-important martyr.’_ Last time I save _your_ life. He didn’t say anything, just kept sipping his drink. After a week of wondering whether or not he’d see the Crusader before he departed, and a week of wondering _why_ he cared to see the man, Dismas just stayed silent. Of course he’d only come see this lowly thief to help wipe away some ridiculous inner turmoil leftover from that night. Maybe that’s why Dismas had wanted to see him, too.

“I barely sleep. And the sleep I do get is plagued by nightmares.” He ducked his bucket head and leaned in close to Dismas, lowering his voice to a deep whisper. “I keep seeing that _thing_. And I know you see it, too.”

“And so you want to go hunt it down.” It was a sentence, not a question. After a single night in a forest with Reynauld, Dismas felt he knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t going to settle with ‘we got away with our life, barely’. With ‘we get to live another day as long as we never see that creature again’. With ‘we survived by the skin of our teeth and fled from that evil thing by the grace of some god above’. Nope. Not good enough for Reynauld. _Moron, maniac, martyr_.

“I do.”

Dismas knit his eyebrows together and took a long drink. “What makes you think we won’t get our asses handed to us again?”

A long pause. He hesitated and Dismas looked up at him. “We work well together,” his words sounded cautious, unsure. Like he was nervous to say them in case they weren’t received well. They weren’t. “We know what we’re getting into now. If we were a little more prepared this time --”

“We work terribly together,” Dismas interrupted. “You’re some self-righteous zealot and I’m a…” He gestured to himself with a leather hand and shrugged.

“Lowly thief?”

_Tch_. Talk about calling the kettle ‘black’. Dismas raised his glass slightly as if to cheers him and clinked his glass with the bag of gold that Reynauld had apparently swindled from the camp the week prior. “That makes two of us, then.”

A deep, exhausted sigh echoed in Reynauld’s helmet. “Look, something is wrong here. Something nefarious darkens this town, and it’s my duty to purge it.”

“Yeah, well.” Dismas took another long sip before finishing his sentence. “Not mine.”

There’s no way he was going to go back to the Weald, not without kicking and screaming anyway. After the past week, he was now itching to put as much distance between himself and this Hamlet as his money would provide. Which was a considerable amount, after his nightly winnings. Reynauld had turned away from him as if contemplating something, another approach maybe. Another way to beg and plead for his company on the road. He’d turn around with his tail between his legs before getting Dismas to submit to his will.

“You know, as a justicar of the Light, it’s also my duty to expose any wrongdoings I see…,” Well that wasn’t what Dismas had been expecting. Reynauld cleared his throat before continuing. “Arson… Vandalism… Cheating at cards.”

Dismas froze and flicked his eyes to the bartender to see if they overheard. Thank the gods, the bartender was turned from them, pouring beer into frosty mugs. The aces Dismas had tucked in his sleeves felt heavier under Reynauld’s gaze. He ignored it, though, and tried to keep his voice neutral. “You must be real fun at parties, tin can, you know that?” He got a snort in return. Reynauld didn’t seem dissuaded.

“It’d be a shame to have to return all that gold you won,” he continued to rumble with his low whispers directed at Dismas. “I wonder what they would be forced to do knowing you’ve already drank half of your ill-begotten winnings.”

He finished his drink, as if to make a point. It’s like the Crusader knew he was killing Dismas’ buzz. “I’ve never heard of a vessel of the Light using blackmail to get what they want.” His dark eyes were faraway, staring at the wall. He bitterly added, “Though I suppose your kind has done far worse than just simple extortion.”

“We do what it takes to rid the world of darkness,” Reynauld leaned back in his own seat. His voice was still quiet when he said, “Even at the cost of our own humanity.”

Whatever that pain was, reflected in his voice, Dismas didn’t feel any sympathy for him. He had too many of his own woes to care about some self-inflicted wounds of a god-fearing religious mutt, barking at every shadow he saw. Still, he didn’t put it past Reynauld to actually rat him and his extra aces out. Dismas was a known cheat in many towns, unfortunately, and was banned from most gambling halls.

He decided to switch gears, maybe gain the upper hand. “What do you even hope to accomplish? Other than get us both killed on some delusional suicide mission?”

“I want to know what depths of hell that beast came from.”

That didn’t really answer his question, and it sure as hell didn’t sound like anything Dismas wanted to do. Assuming any of that was even possible. He didn’t think Reynauld would listen to reason, though. “And then?”

“Then,” Reynauld paused. “I want to stamp it out from this plane of existence.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was just too fucking funny that this guy wanted to run headfirst back to the pits, back to the demon that nearly ate them whole, effortlessly. Back to the thing that so easily brought a grown man to his knees just by looking at it. “What makes you so sure I won’t run off with the gold and leave you for dead?”

“Easy.” There was a smile in his voice. “You’ve already proven that you won’t. That’s why I came back to you, thief.”

Dismas scowled and fidgeted with the empty glass. He very nearly had left the Crusader for dead -- in fact, he’s surprised that he didn’t. It defied all logic, overrode his instincts, made him face a fear of death that he didn’t even know he had. It bothered him, that he didn’t just up and run. Or maybe, it bothered him that Reynauld now knew he wouldn’t. That he now trusted him. He didn’t want the man’s trust, whether or not he had earned it. In fact, he wished he hadn’t earned it, he wished he had lived up to his nature and everything he knew about himself and just left Reynauld there.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t left him there, and Dismas didn’t know what to think about it. All he knew was that he didn’t save this guy and go against his very nature just for him to keep insulting him. The least he could do is call him by his name.

“It’s Dismas,” he said without looking up, still fiddling with the glass.

“Pardon?”

“My name. It’s Dismas.” He turned the glass upside with a loud _clink_ and pushed it towards the barkeep. He was irritated, but he didn’t know why. The alcohol, maybe. This Crusader ruining his supposed last night here, maybe. “Call me ‘thief’ one more time and I’ll rip out your tongue through those slits in your visor.”

That damnable chuckle ghosted the space between them again. “Dismas, then,” Reynauld said, all smoke and honey. Dismas hid behind his cowl. “Can I count on you to join me tomorrow? At the very least, just to go investigate.”

_Fuck it, fine. Not like I have anything else to look forward to, anyway_. There was probably some good loot to be had, too, if they found more brigands on the road -- so long as Reynauld didn’t steal it all. And since they were going during the day, he hoped that meant Reynauld’s search for evil beasts would come up empty handed. “Wake me up before the sun rises and consider the deal off.”

Reynauld stuck his hand out, and Dismas reluctantly gave him a handshake. It felt like the night they met over the Help Wanted posted. “You have my word.”

“If you get me killed, I’m coming back to haunt you.” He needed another drink after this and grabbed the bag of gold. _Prat_. At least he was paying him instead of just guilting and blackmailing him. He gestured at the barkeep for another heavy pour of liquor as Reynauld stood up next to him.

“Goodnight, Dismas. And thank you.”

Dismas grunted in response, not looking up. Not looking anywhere except the barkeep handing him his refill, which he shot back quickly. He didn’t want to remember this in the morning, didn’t want to be clear of mind enough to regret it right now. So he drank. Two, three, five more drinks and half the bag of gold later, Dismas finally stood up. The world swayed just how he liked it and he smiled at nothing, at everything. At the barkeep, at the stairs, at his room when he finally stumbled up to it. He was unlocking his door when he heard something, low and familiar and irritating, whispering in the room next to his. Chanting.

Praying.

_Reynauld_. Had he been in the neighboring room this whole time? Dismas racked his blur of a memory, but he just couldn’t remember. He went to bed far too late, far too drunk, and didn’t wake up until after breakfast this entire week. If Reynauld had been in the room next door, there’s no way they would have run into each other. The Crusader was probably some old, ragged man under that armor, in bed by sundown and up before dawn. The irritating sort.

Vaguely, Dismas hoped he hadn’t been too noisy with the brothel girls he brought back with him the days prior.

After fumbling with the locks, he finally made it inside and had enough sense to kick off his boots. He tripped as he did so, catching himself on the side table and banging it into the wall. The praying immediately stopped at that and the following silence was uncomfortable. A small part of him realized that Reynauld was probably buffing himself for tomorrow, whatever tomorrow would bring. Whoops.

Sleepy, drunk, buffs be damned, Dismas threw himself onto the bed still fully clothed and nuzzled into the pillow. This was the place he loved to be, on the edge between consciousness and sleep, almost always under the influence of some kind of vice. Drink. Drugs. Girls. It was comfortable, guiltless, before the bad dreams kicked in. Before he could envision their faces, misted with blood and gaping in fear at him. Just past the broken window of the carriage…

The sound of metal brought Dismas out of his reverie and he immediately grabbed at his gun under the mattress.

Nothing came through the door, or window, or crawled out from the bed. Nothing appeared in the dark with lashing tentacles and gritty teeth. He started to relax back into that sleepy limbo when he heard it again, metal scraping, and sat up. It was coming from Reynauld’s room. The soft clinking of chainmail came next, and Dismas realized what he was listening to. He slowly relaxed, sinking back into the mattress, focused on that soft sound beyond the wall. It lulled him back into that safe place in his mind, that comfortable midway trance where his awareness quieted and his thoughts floated.

He closed his eyes and drifted off to the sound of Reynauld shedding his armor, piece by piece, undressing just next door. The ruffle of clothes. His voice, steady and resolute in the dark, _‘you will survive -- I judge it so’_. Dismas had never felt… safe, before. Protected. His thoughts slipped to darkness. His dreams were filled with smoke and honey, warding off the faces that haunted his conscience.

When he awoke to knocking the next day, sun high in the sky as promised, he barely even felt his hangover. It had been the best sleep Dismas had gotten in a while, and he hated that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least they know each others' names now???


	4. Moderation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If someone can figure out how to make turn-based battle interesting in written-form, text me.

**4\. Moderation**

Not even an hour later, they were on the road. The Old Road, specifically. The damnable, dirt-crusted, obviously haunted by some weird shit Old Road, more specifically.

Dismas surprisingly didn’t have much of a headache. He was groggy, yeah, but a cold rinse in the basin cured him of that. That didn’t mean he was in a good mood, of course. How could anyone be in a good mood while being dragged back out to the harrowing, horrific site of their latest near-death? At the very least, they didn’t have the Heir with them this time. 

At his side, Reynauld had offered him some rations since Dismas had missed breakfast this morning, again. He declined it curtly, borderline rude; the last thing he needed was to be grateful to the Crusader for anything. He was enjoying his bad mood and didn’t want Reynauld ruining it by making him _happy_. After their talk last night, and his surprisingly good quality sleep, Dismas needed more reason than ever to despise the other man. He didn’t want to give the impression that they were friends, gods forbid.

“So what’s your plan of attack with this thing?” he asked Reynauld dryly. “Gonna make it confess its sins?”

“My plan,” Reynauld raised his fist. “Is to attack.” Dismas gave him a bored, unimpressed look at that, so he continued. “I had the clergyman provide extra vials of holy water. It seemed to hurt the Shambling beast last time, so if we cover ourselves with it -- ”

“No way am I dousing myself with that stuff,” Dismas cut in.

Reynauld turned to him and his voice was playful, sarcastic. “Scared it will burn?”

Their typical banter. _This_ was in Dismas’ comfort zone. _This_ he knew how to navigate. If ever they had a dynamic to them, sarcastic barbs was it. Dismas faced him as well, a smirk hidden behind his neckerchief and said, “Scared you’ll get the wrong idea and consider me pure of heart.”

There was that dark, resonant chuckle from his dreams. “I don’t think anyone would consider that. Especially not the brothel girls.”

Dismas turned from him, feeling his ears redden annoyingly. Guess he wasn’t as quiet as he thought. He shrugged. “We can’t all be celibate, you know. Who would keep the poor lasses company?”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s your company they love,” Reynauld said. He trailed off as they finally approached the spot where they fought the Eldritch monster. The spot where they were forced to run for their lives, narrowly avoiding death. Dismas shivered as they stepped closer and Reynauld looked around at the crater of destruction. 

The earth was torn apart, deep gashes trenched in the trees and dirt. The dark purple blood, now dried to black, was still sprayed across the scene and some of the trees had been uprooted. Dismas eyed the cracks in the cobblestones, dented beneath a great weight. The weight of Reynauld being slammed into them. He shivered again and walked up to the Crusader’s side, who was kneeling in the dirt, looking at something. When he stood up, he handed something to Dismas.

His knife.

He looked at the dirk in surprise, not sure what he was expecting. It wasn’t this. It was still covered in the otherworldly ichor, dried and flaking. “Thanks,” he murmured, wiping the blade on his pants. He’d have to give it a thorough cleaning later.

Reynauld didn’t respond, and Dismas finally noticed that both the trashed holy scroll _and_ the severed tentacle were gone. Just… gone. That tentacle had been as long as Dismas was tall and was thick with corded muscle and suckers, if he remembered right. His arm twitched painfully where barbs had gored him, and knew he wasn’t likely to ever forget what the thing had looked like.

“It was dragged off,” the Crusader said darkly. Dismas looked up, where Reynauld was pointing, and saw that there were indeed bloody drag marks from where they were standing, into the forest. 

Into the Weald. 

“Maybe the creature came back for it,” Dismas suggested. It had sounded better in his head.

Reynauld shook his head and stepped closer to the edge of the woods, making Dismas’ skin crawl just watching him. He wanted to tell him to get back, but he wasn’t sure why. That same lingering dread from that night still filled the air and was making him jumpy. 

“I want to check it out.”

“Oh no,” said Dismas. He raised his hands and shook his head. The mushroom forest was creepy enough without already being haunted by Light knows what. “No no. I agreed to come here and check this out, I never agreed to actually going _into_ the Weald. I held up my end of the bargain.”

“Fine,” Reynauld said gruffly. “I’ll be back soon.” 

With that, the Crusader pushed into the forest in the direction of the drag marks. Dismas watched in tense silence for a few minutes, waiting to see if the man came screaming back. Waiting to see if he brought some horror from Beyond back with him. But nothing. Dismas only had the silence of the Old Road to comfort him now.

A sudden thought crossed his mind, scheming and vile. He looked down the Old Road, towards the Hamlet. It wasn’t too far off. He could always just… run back, grab his few belongings, then be off. Reynauld had already paid him, and technically Dismas had kept his promise from last night. He was going to leave today, anyway, and it’s not like he owed Reynauld any huge debt. They were even now, right? Really, if Dismas thought about it, he’d say it’s more like Reynauld owed _him_ a debt if anyone was counting. 

Somewhere, deeper in the Weald, something roared. _Reynauld_.

Dismas turned towards the sound, in the direction of the drag marks. The other man had been gone ten minutes, maybe more, so he couldn’t have gone far. Pulling out his gun, Dismas barged into the woods and left the Old Road behind. He ran through the trees and boulders, ducking under vines and mushrooms and cobwebs, breathing heavy. Shit, maybe this past week of pleasures and vice had him more winded than he thought. 

The drag marks and purple viscera stopped, suddenly, and Dismas was lost. He peered through the forest growth, head on a swivel, trying to find some sign of Reynauld. 

To his left. A gurgling hiss, like poison seething from a polluted corpse, wisped out. Dismas turned and ran in that direction, not sure what could possibly be making that noise out here, but certainly that’s where the Crusader could be found. Sure enough, as he ran deeper into the Weald, he heard the sounds of a scuffle and broke into a clearing.

“Back!” Reynauld shouted, and for a moment Dismas thought he was speaking to him. “Back, you fiend!” 

He was grappling someone… some _thing_. It wasn’t human, whatever it was, and it gurgled out another hiss and released spores into the air. Spores… from the multitude of mushrooms growing from its body. The humanoid creature walked on two legs, swung two long arms at Reynauld, even wore _pants_. But if it had been human before, it was no longer. The skin was a sickly yellow, corpse-like, covered in fungus and mold, and it sprouted wide mushrooms in clusters over its body. 

Its stomach, its arms, its shoulders all grew from it festering mushrooms that dripped with a putrid slime. Infected-looking lumps bubbled along its skin, especially up towards its neck where attached was not a head but a giant, hardened stem. On top of the stem, a mushroom cap and beneath the cap were gills that emitted a yellow cloud when it breathed, hissing out more noxious air as it wrestled with the armored man. 

“Reynauld!” shouted Dismas. “Get down!”

He looked up for a split second, then ducked down. It gave Dismas the perfect shot on the mushroom head, which he expected to burst into fleshy chunks. Instead, only a tiny piece flew off where the bullet hit, bouncing to the ground. Dismas cursed. First the Shambler, now this? What were these fucking creatures made out of, other than nightmares. 

Still, it knocked the mushroom creature back far enough to let Reynauld recover and draw his sword. He took a stab at the stumbling monster, but it didn’t cut through like it would have with mere flesh. Instead, it scraped past and left a long scratch along its belly. 

“For fuck’s sake!” Dismas shouted, aiming and taking another shot. It hit the thing square in the shoulder, which forced it back a step further and nothing more. No blood, no screech, just a wobbling step back. It was like a zombie made of toadstools and bark, blessed with some inhuman protection. Dismas fired again, more out of frustration than anything else. 

Reynauld gripped his sword in both hands as if it were a bat and swung it, hard, right at the creature’s head. It didn’t sear right through it like it should have, but it did hit with enough force to send the creature toppling to the ground, head first. The Crusader stomped down on it with his steel boot, pressing it to the floor where it writhed and hissed and smogged, then lifted his sword overhead. “I’ll cut you as many times as it takes!” he cried.

Dismas was happy to watch on with satisfaction at the fungal monster’s pain, stab after righteous stab, until something occurred to him. He ran out to the center of the clearing and stilled Reynauld’s next thrust with a hand to his gauntlet. 

“Hold on!”

The Crusader probably could have overpowered him with one strong downward slash of his sword at the creature, but he stilled instead and looked up. His boot stayed where it was, though, pressing the thrashing thing into the ground. “We should keep it alive.”

His response was breathless and angry. “What?!”

“I know, I know. It’s your duty to kill bad shit and all, I know. But,” Dismas opened and closed his leathered fists, grasping for the words. “The doctor, at the Hamlet. The one you dropped me off at. She’s insane, and she likes to cut things up and examine them. She was saying how she wanted to… study these things. Whatever they are. And --” 

Gods, he was tripping over his words. Reynauld didn’t move, his sword still raised high. It’s not like the Crusader’s first priority was knowledge and science. Still, Dismas tried. “Knowing more about where they came from might give us an advantage, priest.” It was unusual for him, considering he always preferred to kill first, think later. But that had led to the biggest regrets of his life, and besides that, brute force clearly wasn’t doing them any favors where these otherworldly Eldritch monsters were involved. 

By some miracle, Reynauld lowered his sword, slowly, staring at Dismas. He sighed and looked down to the mushroom man, the disgusting fungal creature still breathing in and out through its mushroom gills. Shallow cuts littered its body where Reynauld had been stabbing, the hardened skin deflecting the blows easily. Dismas personally didn’t care to see the beast alive for a second longer, but he couldn’t shake the Plague Doctor’s wistful words while he was in her care.

_Your wounds aided my studies immensely. I’d give my left tit to see what inflicted you so._

“Fine,” answered Reynauld after a long pause. He looked reluctant as he shifted his sword so the hilt was pointed down instead. “If you think it’s best -- ” then _slammed_ the hilt down on the mushroom head of the creature. It stilled immediately, stunned.

_Feh_. Of course it could be stunned but not shot or stabbed. 

They carried it, awkwardly, back to town. It seemed to take hours, with Reynauld having to re-stun it every few minutes, but they eventually made it back before dinner. Before night fell. 

Paracelsus was beside herself when examining her new specimen, like they gifted her something from the gods themselves. She promised to have answers -- or at least more appropriate questions -- for them in the morning. Reynauld worried whether she could handle a creature as… lively as this noxious, hissing beast but she shooed him away and slammed the door behind them.

“Stun grenades,” Dismas explained as they headed towards the tavern together. It was dark out now. “Apparently very potent, since I can’t remember them.” 

Reynauld nodded at that and was quiet for a moment. “I appreciate you coming out there with me.” He wasn’t sure why he was thanking him -- all Dismas had done was walk him there, let him wander into the Weald alone, then forced him not to go through with his kill. If anything, Dismas felt like a burden.

He shrugged anyway. “It’s not like I had a choice.” They walked in silence the rest of the way to the tavern before Dismas stopped at the doors. Warm light, music, and laughter came from inside. Reynauld stopped as well and turned. They stood there, staring at each other, waiting for the other to speak first. Dismas wasn’t sure what to say, so he said the first thing that came to his mind.

“Want a drink?”

~~~~~

The glasses clinked with ice and amber liquor as they were set down in front of the two men. Dismas grabbed for his immediately, savoring the bite of the alcohol as it warmly slid down his throat. He hadn’t eaten anything today, which made for a quick buzz -- if only he had also lost some blood on top of it. He watched Reynauld grab his own glass and just hold it there in his armored hands.

“Scared to sin, Crusader?” Dismas drawled, smiling coyly. “I won’t tell.”

He heard a snort within the helmet. “We’re allowed to drink in moderation.” He sounded offended, almost. It made Dismas grin behind his cowl. 

“Moderation, you say? Never heard of it.” He took another drink and smacked his lips.

There was a click to his side and Dismas turned to look. Reynauld had unlatched the clasp under his chin and slowly raised the metal helmet. Dismas tried not to stare, told himself not to stare, but curiosity got the better of him. He was expecting liver spots and wrinkles. He was expecting grey hairs and milky eyes and sags and veins and age. He was expecting the face of a sodden old man who had spent his life in cloisters and holy battlegrounds. The kind who scared children into right and wrong, the kind who rejected women because they rejected him, the kind to always have to look down on the likes of Dismas.

There was nothing of that here.

Reynauld, the _real Reynauld_ and not just the boring suit of armor, was… _handsome_. He had a typically masculine face, with a well-defined chin and nose. Strong, corded muscles flowed from his jaw down his neck to below his armor, giving him a powerful but graceful look. A prominent brow and cheekbones cast his face in a favorable light here in the dim tavern. Dark eyebrows sloped down in a serious expression and framed bright, gunmetal blue eyes. They flicked up to meet his slack jawed stare and Dismas faltered, swallowing thickly. He was handsome from the depths of those gentle steel eyes to the quirk of his lips, enveloped in a thick brown beard that framed his face. He was handsome from the scar that cut down his cheek to his quiet, captivating voice --

“Expecting someone else?” 

_Fuck_. Dismas narrowed his eyes at him, instantly broken out of his stupor with a shiver at the deep voice now unhindered behind a helmet. He looked away as Reynauld pulled back the cloth hood covering his hair, exposing tousled dark brown locks, thick and lustrous. It made Dismas scowl. _Fuck_.

He shook himself and recovered quickly, burying his face in his cowl to hide whatever stupid look he was apparently sporting. “You’re not as disfigured as I imagined is all.” 

The booming laugh, out in the open, genuine and honest and baritone, irritated Dismas to no end. He shrunk down further into his neckerchief, refusing to look anywhere but his half-empty glass. Gods above, he just wished the other man would put his fucking helmet back on and spare Dismas his dignity. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Reynauld, handsome, lively, ever-masculine Reynauld just laughed and clinked his drink to Dismas’. “Cheers, my friend.”

Dismas lifted his head just slightly, just enough to watch as Reynauld drank the liquor in one tilt. _Impressive…_ he raised an eyebrow as the Crusader placed his glass back down. _For a priest_. Reynauld looked at Dismas who followed suit, throwing back the rest of his drink and quickly ordering another round. 

It was time to test the limits of Reynauld’s ‘moderation’.

…

As it turned out, his definition of ‘moderation’ was about on the same level as Dismas’ empty-stomach tolerance. They were on their fifth drink, which were normally rookie numbers for the highwayman, but he swayed gently perched atop the barstool, enjoying his heady buzz and happy feeling in his chest. 

“I haven’t drank like this since my youth,” Reynauld hiccuped next to him.

“Shame,” said Dismas through a sly smile. “Inebriation is your best ally, I always say. It’s one of my favorite vices.” _Along with cards, women, and killing_. Dismas had an impressive resume and a long history of bounties, if nothing else to his name. Not that he was proud of them, per se, but they were all he had to his name anymore. 

“So I’ve noticed.” He sounded put off, and Dismas had to swallow a defensive retort. “Are you still planning to leave soon?”

Dismas shrugged. He hadn’t really thought about it, too busy enjoying the festive mood of the tavern tonight. Now that he did pause and consider it, it was probably best to wait until morning and see what Light-awful, depraved findings the Plague Doctor had managed to scrape out of the mushroom corpse they delivered to her. 

He said as much and Reynauld shivered, visibly. “These blighted horrors…” A second passed and the Crusader composed himself again, then placed a heavy hand on Dismas’ shoulder. “We can rid the Hamlet of them, I know it.”

The inspiring vote of confidence should have touched Dismas, but instead he felt sick at the sincerity in the words. All things considered, he really should have moved on from this place by now. Between the Crusader and the Eldritch horrors, the Hamlet wasn’t good for his health and he’d much rather piss away his remaining good health on drinking. His glass was empty. Scowling, he shook Reynauld’s hand from his shoulder and stood up.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, old man?” he deflected.

Reynauld chuckled. “Elusive, evasive, and persistent. Righteous traits for a rogue,” he said as he pulled out a purse filled with gold. Dismas stopped him and threw his own coins on the bartop to cover their drink tab.

That earned him a measured, probably drunken look on the Crusader’s part. Steel blue-grey eyes met his dirty brown ones and made Dismas turn away. “My treat,” said Dismas gruffly. Reynauld smiled at him and Dismas hated it. He grabbed the Crusader’s helmet from the bar for him and turned away, towards the stairs, face ducked beneath his cowl. “Now don’t ever call me ‘righteous’ again.” 

They headed to bed, up the shaky, spinning stairs rolling beneath their swaying feet. Reynauld leaned on Dismas and Dismas didn’t care, didn’t even flinch or blush like some novice brothel girl might, and they dragged each other to the second floor. He wasn’t surprised Reynauld was such a lightweight, but he was surprised at his own level of idiot drunk after just a few rounds. The day took a bigger toll on him than he realized, he guessed. 

He helped the Crusader unlock his door and kept him from stumbling in. Five drinks. Five drinks was enough to put a big sober oaf like Reynauld on his ass. Five drinks was _not_ enough to give Dismas untoward thoughts. He looked around the room instead and saw that it was basically a carbon copy of his own room, the main difference being the Holy Book of Light on his nightstand instead of a knife or snuff bag. With a grunt, he heaved Reynauld onto the empty bed with its tidy sheets and folded blanket. The armor on the other man clinked and caused the mattress to groan, but Dismas shook his head. Five drinks was certainly _not_ enough to help disrobe the strikingly handsome Crusader.

“I’m not tucking you in, if that’s what you were hoping for.”

That damnable chuckle. Everything was just a big fucking joke to him, wasn’t it? Dismas might have found solace in that someone else shared his devil-may-care humor, if this particular laughter didn’t wind him up so tight, like a cocked pistol. What was wrong with him?

“Thank you, Dismas,” Reynauld said sleepily. Drunkenly. Irritatingly.

It was enough to piss him off, and Dismas snapped back, “Quit thanking me! I haven’t done anything for you to be grateful about!”

There was a resounding silence after that and Dismas turned his back. He just wanted to be gone, out of this room and out of this town. There was nothing here for him, nothing that the next town couldn’t just as easily provide. He’d go to see Paracelsus tomorrow and then pack his meager bags. 

Softly, Reynauld finally said, “You’ve saved my life. Twice. That’s something to be grateful for.”

_Three times, but who was counting?_ Dismas shrugged. “Consider us even, priest.”

He had a wineskin in his room somewhere and was more than ready to go dig it out, but he heard Reynauld scoff and looked back. The man was sitting up and staring him down with those piercing eyes, mouth set in a contemplative frown in the center of his full beard. “It’s Reynauld.” 

Dismas was too buzzed for his games and furrowed his brow. “What?”

“My name,” the Crusader smirked then, facial hair twitching up with his lips. It was a strange expression to see a holy man make, but it was oddly fitting on Reynauld. Dismas hated that he liked it. “Call me ‘priest’ one more time and I’ll pull that scarf around your neck so tight that it will be the last word you ever speak.”

Silence, then an earnest smile played on Dismas’ lips. Then a short, drunken laugh quickly swallowed and silenced. Dismas was sure Reynauld could still see the smile on his face, over his neckerchief, and turned away, but the damage was already done. His genuine laughter seemed to echo between them still and Reynauld seemed to smile victoriously at him. 

“Goodnight, Reynauld.” He closed the door behind him and headed towards his own room before realizing he still had the man’s helmet. Oh well. It’s not like he’d need it in the middle of the night, and there was no way he was going back in there. He felt a weird tension between them that he needed to get away from immediately. It was probably from the drink, from them suddenly not hating each other, from them saving each others’ lives. It was _not_ from those bright eyes and deep voice. 

He entered his room and slammed the helmet down on his dresser, then dug out his wineskin and drank deeply. He wasn’t drunk enough to find that peaceful headspace, the plane between rest and wakefulness that lulled him to sleep. When the dreams finally came, Dismas was almost happy that they were of those familiar haunted faces, bloody and dead, and not of anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this still natural and organic? Where is the line between horror and rom-com? sos


	5. Expedition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gettin a little gay in here

**5\. Expedition**

It was the morning after and, yep, there was the hangover. Dismas wasn’t sure when he’d be too old to drink himself to sleep every night, but it was probably years ago. His bones ached and his vision swam in that familiar way. His thirties hit him like a truck where drinking was involved. He wondered absently how Reynauld was fairing, being slightly older than him and unaccustomed to daily drunken revelry. He was probably at the abbey, begging the Light to forgive him for last night. For unwinding a little bit, like a normal human being. 

Maybe Dismas could use some of that forgiveness right now, actually. He winced when he sat up and immediately saw the helmet still in his room. It took a few moments to remember why it was there and then he begrudgingly got out of bed to wash up and throw on new clothes. The world usually spun less after a cold bath.

The metal bascinet watched the whole time and Dismas glared at it. He had to return it as soon as possible or else risk losing it, probably by means of chucking it out the window.

Freshly washed, Dismas grabbed it and headed out the door, then knocked on Reynauld’s. If Reynauld wasn’t in his room, he’d just leave it by the door and head out to see the Plague Doctor himself. That was probably preferable, actually, but he heard movement within the room -- Dismas was shocked that he was inside and not hidden away in the pews with his regrets from last night -- and the door opened. 

Dismas paused. Of _course_ the other man was shirtless, of _course_ he was. The universe must have been punishing him for last night. With Dismas’ luck, he was honestly surprised the man was wearing pants. 

“Good morning,” Reynauld chirped, not showing any of the headache Dismas felt.

His hair was wet and Dismas scowled at it. Scowled at his broad shoulders, at the milky white skin stretched over well-defined pectorals. At the soft hairs that dotted down his neck to his chest. Dismas didn’t scowl at anything else, though -- no way would he let his eyes explore further. He shoved the helmet at the other man, using _exactly_ as much force as he deemed necessary, plus a little more for good measure.

“You forgot this last night,” said Dismas irritably. The goody-two-shoes, holier-than-thou, not-attractive-in-the-least Crusader always knew how to bring out his worst moods. 

Reynauld smiled a dimpled, eye-crinkling smile at him and took the bascinet. “Thank you.” Dismas’ eyebrow twitched, remembering him yelling at Reynauld last night to stop thanking him. Clearly he was just overly generous with his gratitude. It was just one more thing to add to the growing list of things Dismas hated about him; his praying, his quick wit, his blue eyes, his inspirational cheers, his obnoxious appreciation for the dumb shit Dismas did.

He decided to change the subject. “I’m going to see Paracelsus soon, if you want to join me.” Reynauld smiled, and Dismas wished he hadn’t offered.

Thankfully, Reynauld stepped aside and placed his helmet on the bed where the rest of his armor was laying ready to be equipped. Dismas was sure the man had just dunked himself in holy water to rinse off, probably, by the way his hair was still damp and pressed against his forehead. The way he still had a wet sheen on his back and shoulders.

“I was just buffing my armor,” said Reynauld. _Oh, is THAT what you call it?_ Dismas rolled his eyes at his own joke, hating himself for it. “You’re welcome to come in and wait while I -- ” 

“No.” Dismas cut him off. No way was he going to go sit on the nicely-made bed, legs crossed and waiting patiently all starry-eyed while he watched Reynauld put on his armor piece by piece. Like some sappy lass with a festering crush. “ _No_ ,” he said again, then reached in the room and closed the door, hard. He stalked to the other wall and leaned against it, impatient and irate. 

_Why?_ he stood there scolding himself angrily. It’s not like Dismas hadn’t been with other men before. When you’re a brigand, out on the road with a band of other mean, vile outlaws -- all of whom were male -- things happened and you didn’t bother to regret them the next day. You got action where you could, everyone knew that. Then, when they made their gold and found a town that didn’t immediately run them out, Dismas used the brothels to fill any respites. That was the law of the road, was that whatever happened, happened. It had never bothered him before.

But this. _This_ bothered him. He’d sooner slit his wrists than admit to any attraction he felt towards a _Crusader_. The church shamed and forbade Dismas’ particular lifestyle in more ways than one, and Reynauld was conscripted to the holy word just as much as any of them in the clergy.

He needed to get rid of this ironic passing fancy as soon as humanly possible. Perhaps a night in the pleasure halls would satiate him, get this out of his system.

Reynauld opened the door again a few minutes later and, blessedly, was not only fully clothed but fully armored. The helmet sat back on his head where it belonged. _Much better_ , he thought. _Now maybe I can get shit done and be rid of this place_. They left the tavern in relative silence and walked down the cobbled streets to the infirmary, passing by a new wooden stagecoach on their way. 

A slender woman stepped off the coach and straightened her old cloth robe. Strangely enough, she wore platemail over her dark green habit and held a large, spiked mace in one hand.

That’s not what pulled Dismas’ attention, though. Behind her, tending to the mangy grey horses, was that old, crazy stagecoach driver that had left them there on the Old Road. Dismas’ brows shot up and his temper flared instantly. Without warning, he changed direction and stormed over to the wagon, Reynauld at his heels questioning him. He didn’t bother answering and instead walked right up to the driver, eyebrows furrowed in a glower at the sickly-looking man.

“I see you survived the crash, old-timer,” gruffed Dismas. He was in no means pleased to see the man, but the driver’s eyes lit up like flashbangs when he saw Dismas and Reynauld approach. “Funny, that.”

That same cracked grin from before split his face in two. “Fate has a mysterious way of doing that.”

Dismas lifted his chin and spit to the side. “‘Fate’ has nothing to do with this. You left us there to be devoured by that…” he paused and looked to the tanned woman in holy garb who was watching them with interest. He lowered his voice and bit out, “By that _thing_.”

“I can’t say I know what you mean, son,” he croaked.

“Of course you do, coachman.” Dismas felt his temper again, making his hands twitch. “You were driving like a bat out of Hell. You were scared of the fucking _moon_ , for Flame’s sake.”

“Call me what I am, lad. The Hamlet’s Caretaker.”

Annoyed, vehement, Dismas crossed his arms and scowled at the old man. “You made fools of us out there.”

He scraped out a laugh that sounded like a rusty door hinge and Dismas wanted to punch him, or stab him, anything to wipe that smile off his face. That revolting smile seemed permanently stretched on his face, never faltering. “The Old Road makes fools of us all, in due time. I fear it leads only to ever more tenebrous places for you and your friend here.”

“So you _did_ know!” gritted Dismas. He stepped closer. “You crazy, flea-bitten cretin, you _knew_ something was out there!” 

Reynauld stepped in before Dismas could do something stupid like strangle him there, in broad daylight, in front of a bright-eyed Vestal, and said, “What my friend here is trying to say --” Dismas shot him an angry glare. “-- is that we ran into something very… unusual out in the Weald that night. Any insight you might have would be appreciated.” 

Dismas huffed. This Crusader and his _pretty words_ \-- see if that did them any better.

“I know only that it is a miracle you two survived,” the Caretaker fell into a fit of decrepit laughter. “As I said, fate deals us a strange hand.”

Fate. _Hmph_. More like the mad Caretaker looking for unsuspecting sacrifices to his bloody moon obsession. Dismas was tempted to spit again at the thought when the young woman stepped forward, hefting her mace onto her shoulder. “What is all of this about, if I may?”

“Stay out of it, priestess.” _If you value your sanity, that is._

“It sounds to me like you could use my help,” she said passively, Dismas’ rude remark befell deaf ears. Her tan face didn’t betray any emotion, surrounded in the saintly cloth covering her head and pulling her hair back. 

Apparently, she couldn’t take a hint. “It’s above your paygrade.” Dismas spoke, as if it wasn’t above his as well.

Even still, she wasn’t dissuaded and spoke gently, “It’s actually why I was sent here, to this little Hamlet. I have been assigned to investigate the unholy whispers that plague these lands. It appears as though I’m in the right place.” She smiled mildly at them and Dismas frowned back. _Great. As if one bloody vessel of the Light patrolling this town wasn’t bad enough_. Now Dismas would be outnumbered. “My name is Junia.”

Reynauld stepped forward and made their religious gesture to her, which she returned. “It would be good to have you, sister. A Vestal is always a blessing.”

“ _No_.” Dismas didn’t know why he cared so much. He wasn’t even planning to stick around for long, but the thought of two verse-thumping zealots tagging along with him like lost pups annoyed him to no end. “Find a different town to bless.”

They both turned to him and he scowled in equal measure right back. Eventually, the Vestal smiled and made that stupid symbol at him. “I can tell you’re very concerned for my well-being, sir,” she said with an overtly impish look. So Dismas wasn’t just dealing with two religious nuts, but two _cheeky_ religious nuts. _Wonderful_. “But rest assured, it is misplaced. We battle clerics are a formidable bunch.”

Dismas was still trying to decide if that was a veiled threat when Reynauld stepped up to her. “It would be an honor to escort you to the local clergy here, sister Junia.”

Fine. Dismas watched them go, brows furrowed at Reynauld’s back. He’d be happy to go to the Plague Doctor’s clinic for answers or questions or riddles or whatever she had managed to come up with overnight. Then, he could decide what he wanted to do from there -- which was most likely putting as much distance between himself and the Hamlet as possible with his remaining gold. 

“Women and men; soldiers and outlaws; fools and corpses,” the Caretaker bobbed his head next to Dismas, startling him. “All will find their way to us now that the road is clear.”

Dismas scoffed and muttered “No thanks to you,” under his breath.

~~~~~

“That’s sickening,” the highwayman gagged and held the neckerchief to his face, protecting his mouth and nose. 

On the lab table was… an atrocity. Fleshy lumps had been cut and flayed open with pins, bones were protruding from red masses hammered down to the general shape of a human body. Mushrooms had been peeled from the skin and set in jars, suspended in fluid. The sporehead had been severed from the neck and cut down the center, displaying a complicated arrangement of wiry tissue. A nervous system. Blood and viscera dripped from the table onto a tarp below in chunks.

He looked up at Paracelsus who was barefaced, pale skin and slightly older complexion just out in the open, exposed. She bit into an apple with a loud crunch and Dismas felt his stomach turn. 

“Oh stop with the dramatics,” she said and waved her apple towards the gore on the table. “It’s perfectly safe to breathe. Now, anyway. I managed to extract all the toxins from the mushrooms on its body which, strangely enough, is what led to it withering and dying on me. Blasted thing.”

That explained why she was without her mask. Her shoulder length brown locks framed a pale face with dark circles under her moss-green eyes. Dismas wasn’t sure if that was from working through the night this time around, or the many other times he was sure she had stayed up. It looked fitting on her -- pretty, strangely enough -- though she made no efforts to dress herself up otherwise. Her mouth had deep stress lines around it as she bit into the apple again.

“You _extracted_ it?” Dismas asked incredulously. “ _Why?_ ”

She looked affronted by that. “What, you just expect me to toss perfectly good poison to the wind? A good infliction always has its uses.” As she said that, she picked up a glass vial and swished it around at him like it was supposed to mean something to him.

Dismas decided that he really didn’t care to know what those uses were. “So, what did you find? You tore this thing apart well enough.”

A deep sigh, then a tut. Another _crunch_. Paracelsus took her time to answer, staring at the mess she made of the fungus creature. “Would you like to guess how many bodies I’ve maimed in the name of science, highwayman?” 

He rolled his eyes and shrugged. He came here for answers, not guessing games. “Ten?” he suggested, feeling irritated when he saw her patronizing smile. _Crunch_. How many corpses did a person need to stare at to understand life and death? Apparently more than ten. “Twenty?” he tried again. 

“One hundred and forty-two. And a half, technically,” she said all matter-of-fact and threw away the apple core. “And do you want to know how many cadavers they gave us to dissect every term at the university?” She didn’t give him a moment to answer this time, thankfully. “One. One body every six months. My instructor said it was to deter any morbid curiosity from festering in his students. But little did he know that one student in particular was already driven by that very curiosity.”

“So you’re good at what you do, great,” huffed Dismas. “What’s your point?”

“My _point_ ,” Paracelsus smiled up at him. “Is that I know the human body inside and out. Better than any other doctor you’ll find. That creature was only half human, a corpse that had been decomposing for weeks already when it was… remade into _that_.”

Dismas furrowed his brow at her, completely unimpressed. “No shit. I don’t need a degree and a _morbid curiosity_ to tell you that thing was only half human.”

She continued speaking in her clinical way and ignored him. “The other half, now that’s the real _objet d’art_. It appears to be Eldritch. Not unlike whatever it was that blighted you” It was then that she stopped, just when Dismas was starting to lean in, interested, and pulled out a long snuff stick from her orderly coat. She lit one end and took a deep draw, then offered it to Dismas.

“Thanks,” he said and took a much needed drag. He usually preferred the smokeless tobacco of a snuff bag, but even that was a rarity for him. Tobacco was expensive, and he’d rather spend his money on other means of relaxation.

Paracelsus took the stick back and ashed it before taking another pull. “These things are terrible for your health, you know.”

“Most things I do are. So why do you smoke them?”

“I only do when I’m absorbed in my research.” _Puff_. “It helps me concentrate. Now as I was saying, this is sinister magic. Blood magic. Most likely of Eldritch design. It seems someone is taking travelers and harvesting them for some kind of ritual.” _Puff_. “By my calculations, the mushroom cells were amalgamated about a week ago.”

Dismas felt a chill, crawling down his spine and filling him with dread. _A week_. That had been… 

“During the full moon,” Paracelsus finished, stamping out the snuff stick on the sole of her shoe. “Give or take, anyway.” That had been right after Dismas and Reynauld and the Heir had made it back to town, barely. When Dismas had been comatose from the infection in his arm. Did that mean he could turn into a mushroom beast, too? He asked her as much, and she shrugged and lit another stick. “Perhaps when you die, but who’s to say? Certainly, I’d love to examine your body whenever you do.”

He watched her suck down this tobacco stick as well and would have laughed -- a chain smoking Plague Doctor, for fuck’s sake -- if he hadn’t been so shaken. Coming here had been a mistake. Now he just wanted more answers. 

“Sorry to disappoint you, doc,” Dismas turned and grabbed his coat as she continued to drag on the tobacco. “I won’t be sticking around to find out.”

“Now, now, not so fast,” chided Paracelsus. “I’ve already shared my findings with the Heir, along with my suspicions regarding this foul magic. I believe we’re all in danger if nothing is done, so the Heir has deigned a reward with the last of his uncle’s funds.”

Dismas scowled at that; he didn’t need any other reasons to stay. His blood crawled at the very idea. “To anyone who will burn this Hamlet to the ground?”

She laughed, a full hearty laugh that made her look young and beautiful before she finished her second snuff stick on her boot again. She didn’t light another. “To anyone able to figure out where this cursed presence originated from. He wants someone to capture a cultist alive, so that we may question them further.” Paracelsus gestured to her pouch of dissection tools, laid out and befouled on the table next to the asundered creature. Her smile made Dismas shiver. 

"What answers are you expecting to get from some lunatic? We might as well go question the Caretaker." 

"Well…" she clicked her tongue, hesitant. "If I can't extract any useful information, I have a specific contact who can. We'll get our answers."

“How much is he offering?”

“100,000 gold. The last of his inheritance,” she repeated. “In exchange for more information regarding what terrors have been unleashed unto the Estate.”

It was too good to be true. Again. Just like with the Help Wanted poster, there was something else, something foul, to expect. They might not know it yet, but the universe just loved to prove Dismas right about these things. He hated it, but he was also pretty light on funds after spending a week in opulence and rich indulgence. 100,000 split between him and Reynauld to take a cultist captive was a hard offer to pass on.

“Fine. Where is he sending us?”

Paracelsus started gathering her tools, opening drawers and stashing a multitude of leather pouches and grenades into her satchel. “To the ruins of the Ancestor’s old seat of power, within the crypts. There’s a nest of cultists there that have been more active lately, and we think they might be behind all this.” Dismas watched as she strapped her long pointed-mask over her face, ever the Plague Doctor, and slid a knife into her belt. 

Dismas raised his eyebrow at her. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to go, of course,” she said as if it were obvious. She turned her beaked face to him and Dismas could just feel the condescending look she surely wore beneath. “You think I’d entrust two dullards like you and your friend to deal with this? You both have less tact than the Caretaker. Plus, this expedition will make for a great field study in case we find any more of those,” Paracelsus waved to the bloody meat puzzle on her table, which she started to dump onto the tarp below. 

“And what exactly are you going to do out there, stun them to death?” 

She scoffed and patted her hip, where her strange utility belt of mixtures hung. “I have tinctures that can heal and harm, if need be. Toxicity is a matter of dosage, after all.” 

There seemed to be no more arguing with her. Dismas wasn’t a fan of having to split the money a third way -- possibly fourth, if that damnable Vestal managed to sucker Reynauld into joining them -- but the witch was already moving on to packing her journals and textbooks. She placed the bloody bundle of Eldritch body parts into a disposal kiln then walked Dismas out. 

They decided to wait at the bridge for Reynauld and no doubt the new Vestal Junia in tow. Dismas glanced at the sun -- nearly midday -- and then examined the signs pointing at all the various roads leading to the Hamlet. One sign pointed to the Weald, down the Old Road whence they came, and to the left were the Ruins. To the right, something called the Warrens. Dismas saw another sign, down a winding path that seemed to snake around towards the beach that had ‘Cove’ written on it. 

He wondered absently whether or not this “darkness” or “sickness” or whatever everyone kept calling this bullshit was just limited to the Weald or if it spread to other places. If they were encountering mushroom zombies from the Weald forest, what might the other places entail? He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

Back in town, he heard Reynauld call out to him and turned, deflating pointedly when he saw Junia with him. This day was already turning into a pain.

~~~~~

“Hopefully this doesn’t take too long,” griped Dismas. It was well past noon now and the four of them were on their way to the ruins with Reynauld leading them. They had all brought extra torches and provisions, since they’d be heading underground into the old crypts of the Heir’s previous family house, before it was deserted and destroyed. No one knew what had caused the house to fall, but it had been built anew by the last Master of the Estate on the cliffs of the Hamlet. Apparently people in the town liked to speak of hauntings, moans and cries, from down in the crypts. Dismas personally doubted any of them had been within a mile of the place.

Junia turned to him as they walked, still impish. Still annoying. “Have somewhere else to be?”

“Feh. As far from here as possible.” 

“How utterly unscholarly of you,” the Plague Doctor said while she examined a toadstool that she had plucked from one of the trees. Her gloved hands turned it over, left and right, then squeezed it until it fell apart in her hands. “Drats. Doesn’t seem to be Eldritch.”

“You sound disappointed, doctor,” came Junia’s mild voice. Things had been so much quieter when it was just him and Reynauld; Dismas was starting to miss that. “Are you doing research for your institution?”

“No, no, nothing like that. This is more for personal gain.” She opened her satchel and pulled out a notebook and a long stick of charcoal, then flipped to a particular page in the back. “I actually lost my medical license years ago, which canceled all funding I received for my research. That’s how I ended up here, in the Hamlet, where no one bothers me with silly things like a code of ethics.”

Her tone was dismissive, but it made Dismas and Junia share a glance. “You lost your license?”

“ _Primum non nocere_ , and all that nonsense…” she rambled, writing away in her notebook. After a pause, she looked up at the two of them, beaked mask turning each way. “You know, ‘do no harm’? That oath they require you to take when you receive your license to practice medicine? It’s trivial, really. What I’ve done without an official title has contributed far more to the field than any other can say, ordained or not.” She closed the book with a snap, and Dismas wasn’t so sure if he believed her. Was everyone at the Hamlet crazy? And if so, what did that say about him?

In the far distance, something howled. It was a long, deep braying that must have been miles from them, but was still too close for Dismas’ comfort. 

Junia looked up, seeming more excited than scared. “A wolf? It sounds so sad.”

“Probably got separated from its pack,” Dismas said, uncertain. It didn’t sound like any wolf he had heard before, but the Vestal gave a wistful sigh and looked out into the forest.

“I love animals, but we weren’t allowed to care for any in the chantry.”

Paracelsus made a noise behind her mask. “All of the wolves surrounding the Hamlet were hunted down for some reason a decade ago by the Ancestor. There haven’t been any seen since.”

“Maybe some of them returned?” asked Junia. Her voice was hopeful, but the Plague Doctor shook her head and Junia wilted. 

“Doubtful.”

It brayed once more, sad and morose and alone -- or so Junia speculated -- then an eerie hush fell to the woods.

There was a long silence as Paracelsus put away her notebook and charcoal, then she eventually piped in again, as if they were all having some family fun time, gossiping, instead of heading into a den of skeleton-wearing whack jobs. “So what is a sister of the cloth doing out here, so far from her sect?” 

“I was assigned here,” she said, wistfully. “I was originally a nun with some battle training, but I… I was sent to the Hamlet. To observe the darkness that grows in the very earth here.”

Dismas rolled his eyes. “That sounds more like a punishment to me.”

She stuttered at that. “Well, i-it was, actually! But one I am most grateful to the Light for now. Small inconveniences can become true blessings in the Light, or so the verses say.” 

_That sounded made up_. From in front, Reynauld looked back and said, “They only banish those from the chantry who have committed a heinous sin against the Light and Eternal Flame.” A slow smile grew on Dismas’ face as he registered what that meant. She made an embarrassed squeak -- guess Little Miss Perfect wasn’t so perfect.

“It really wasn’t that bad!” Junia pressed a hand to her blushing face. “I just let the holy flame at the altar go out. By accident, of course.”

Paracelsus laughed and Dismas scoffed. “That’s it? You should see my bounties. I’m not sure they’d even allow me in the septs at this point.” That seemed to calm her down some, but Reynauld still stared her down for a lingering moment, then focused on the path they were on.

Junia cleared her throat and stood tall. “And what of you, Sir Reynauld?”

He didn’t turn back around to her. “What about me?”

“Well…” the Vestal trailed off tentatively, as if finding her footing confronting the man. “The Crusades all ended ten years ago. All of those that survived the war were sent back home, to their families. Why haven’t you found your way back, Crusader?” 

Dismas had never considered why Reynauld was still out and about, fighting and looking for cagey jobs in seedy taverns, other than to inconvenience him at every turn. Surely the man had some other life to return to; maybe Dismas wasn’t the only one running from his past after all. He glanced at the others, from the Crusader to the Plague Doctor to the Vestal. No, they all seemed to have some ugly wretched aberrance hidden away in their past. 

“There’s nothing to go back to.” His answer was terse. It was none of Dismas’ business, and he wasn’t about to go sharing his own misdeeds with the Crusader, but his tone piqued his curiosity. “What ever existed of that past life is gone now. I am here only for redemption.”

Junia frowned at that, but kept pushing. He’d have thought a woman of scripture would be more prudent when it came to poking a bear, but apparently not. “Don’t you regret that?”

“Regret is a sin.”

It chilled Dismas, hearing that. Clearly, there was something Reynauld had tried to stamp from his mind, but kept worming its way back. Dismas knew that feeling all too well. As they walked, Junia kept prodding and into the mysterious Crusader’s past to no avail. Reynauld wasn’t speaking any further and eventually Dismas gave her a curt shake of the head to stop. When she shut her mouth, Dismas finally noticed something that had been bothering him, subconsciously. The trees, the birds, the forest as a whole --

Everything was quiet. 

They had been walking for a few hours at this point and finally they could see the desecrated ruins of the old house coming up. Reynauld led them to a section that opened wide in a cracked alabaster staircase, leading down into darkness. 

They had made it to the ruins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots and lots of dialogue, sorry.
> 
> We have a klepto Crusader, a chain-smoking Plague Doctor, a perverted Vestal, and a grumpy Dismas. Family fun time. All feedback is appreciated <3


	6. Ruins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some creative liberties taken with combat for plot's sake, sorry

**06\. Ruins**

The light from the midday sun faded behind them as they walked down the steps, into the stinking abyss. Dismas held his neckerchief closer to his face, gritting his teeth as he breathed through the rotted odor. Paracelsus lit a torch before the dark completely enveloped them and Dismas was grateful; he wasn’t afraid of the dark, per se, but had a healthy respect for it now. 

“You really think the cultists have gathered here?” Junia whispered out. She hovered next to the Plague Doctor, who elbowed her back.

“Of course,” Paracelsus snipped back. “Where else would they be hiding?”

Dismas nodded as he looked around at the crumbling walls and arches of the crypts. “Dead bodies? Old catacombs? Far removed from where others might find them?” he shrugged. “Seems like the perfect place to hunt some cultists to me.”

“Not if they hear us coming first,” grunted Reynauld. He seemed in an exceptionally shitty mood after their conversation about his past -- or lack thereof -- and that had been a very obvious indication to _‘lets all shut the fuck up please’_. Dismas was happy to oblige. The two women were exhausting additions to the team, being total opposites and all; their bickering was endless. Not unlike his and the Crusader's, he supposed.

_Team._

No. No, absolutely not. Dismas had been self-reliant and self-sufficient ever since he had renounced his brigandry and ran from his old gang. He had every reason to believe that the people he had trusted the most -- which wasn’t as far as he could throw them, but still more so than anyone else -- had set him up. Set him up to kill what he believed was a corrupt lawman. Set him up to kill…

_A young mother, rosy cheeks and round eyes wide with fright. A small boy, bundled in her breast for safety. A singular hole shot through them both, freezing them in death while they cowered in fear for their lives._

_Red misted windows. The wind rustling the leaves. Him smugly boasting that he never misses._

It had broken him for a while; the guilt had been too much. He had taken dozens of lives before as a brigand, and even before that as a street urchin -- but never an innocent woman or child. Especially not a child. They haunted his dreams, and rightfully so. He deserved a lifetime of guilt in exchange for such a mindless, heartless butchering.

An arm against his chest snapped him out of his brooding. Reynauld stopped them, arm stretched out to keep Dismas from walking further, and gestured ahead. Before them was what appeared to be a simple trap. A series of holes had been dug into the ground, poorly covered by a metal grate that probably sank when someone put their weight on it. Upon a closer look, Dismas could see bloody spikes beneath the grate, waiting for its next victim. 

“Hmph. Since when do the dead and buried need to set traps?” 

Behind Dismas, Junia wrung her hands. “How will we get across? Perhaps there is a way around it.”

“Stand back,” smirked Dismas. He cracked his knuckles and flexed his hands before pulling out a small pouch filled with tools. Junia could heal, Paracelsus could poison, Reynauld could give inspiring cries or pray or whatever it is he did, and Dismas… Dismas could pick locks and disarm traps. It had been a forte of his back with the brigands and he considered it one of his many talents. Along with killing, swindling, and lovemaking all at the top of his list. 

It didn’t take him long to figure out exactly what the mechanism was and how to trigger it. From there, he made quick work of disabling it. He’d always been good at this, even as a kid running through the streets trying to scrounge money or food. It was the only reason the local flesh-peddler hadn’t sold him off somewhere like they eventually had his mother. 

“There.” He stood and wiped the grease from his hands on his trousers before he put his gloves back on. “Should be safe to cross now.”

No one moved, and he felt his eyebrow raise in agitation. He looked to each of them before turning around with a huff and walking across himself. It held, thankfully, and the rest of them crossed as well. 

~~~~~

The ruins of the crypts were like a shifting black labyrinth of corridors and dead ends and they had to backtrack frequently. The worst part was that none of them could be sure how much time had passed down in the dark dungeons -- an hour? Six hours? They could only measure the passing of time by the number of torches they had burned through already: three. Luckily, they had happened upon an unlit torch abandoned in an old sconce and added it to their collection. 

The extra torch wasn’t the only thing they had found, either. 

Dozens of ornate sarcophaguses, all lined up in boxy rows. Suits of armor, some still standing tall and whole but most toppled over and looted. They had even found a rust-covered iron maiden, pressed up to a wall and clasped shut. Dismas shuttered to think of something lurking within, some corpse that met a horrible end years and years ago but remained trapped. 

No sooner had the thought occurred to him than he heard a sound, a scraping, from inside the iron maiden. 

Junia yelped and grabbed Paracelsus, who didn’t shake her off this time and instead held the light higher. It cast eerie shadows across the room, giving everything sharp edges and gaunt hollows. “Probably just rats…” the Crusader mumbled. But they heard a sound again, this time more of a low moan inside the metal casket -- definitely not rats.

Dismas had a terrible feeling, churning his blood quicker, loud in his ears. He wanted that noise to be rats, but knew it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure what it was rattling inside of a coffin that obviously hadn’t been touched in decades, exactly… but why couldn’t it just be rats?

Apparently he wasn’t the only one unsettled, as Reynauld took to the front and stood between them and the iron maiden. There was pounding now, coming from within, and the moans turned to a hiss as whatever was inside tried to break out. The ironworks came apart at the seam, slowly, releasing age-old dirt and air, and the latch keeping it sealed was starting to bend. Dismas drew his gun and knife as Reynauld unsheathed his sword, then turned back around to look at Dismas. He nodded to the Crusader, who clearly understood that to mean _cut the fucking latch_. 

Bracing himself, he leveled his knife arm up to the thing that tumbled out, loudly, clumsily. It was bright white and for a second, Dismas thought they released a ghost of some sort.

Until it righted itself, drawing up to full height -- the average height of a human, in fact. A human with no skin, or muscle, or tendons. With no blood or organs. Just pearly white bones, standing on their own, still outfitted in pauldrons and bracers and staring at them with dead hollow eyeholes. In its hand was one of the spikes from the iron maiden, broken off as a makeshift weapon of sorts…

...that it then raised at Reynauld. 

Dismas was sure that his armor could deflect it, sure that the man would survive a single slash from a rusty spike, but his quick reflexes moved him of their own accord. He took his dirk and hurled it with precision, on a whim, the blade cutting through the air with a whistle until it lodged in the creature’s eye socket with a dull _thunk_. 

The living skeleton’s head jerked back from the force of it, but it slowly righted itself back up with creaking bones and a snarl. Shit. There goes Dismas’ knife, and it barely phased the creature. 

“It can’t bleed if it has no blood!” the Plague Doctor scolded. He turned back and gave her a withering look over his cowl.

Still, it gave Reynauld enough time to hack at the bones held together at the shoulder. It didn’t cut all the way through, but it did send the pauldron flying and expose the joint underneath. If Dismas could get a steady enough shot, maybe they could disarm the thing. Quite literally.

“See if you can distract it,” he shouted to Junia as he slid out of what he assumed to be the skeleton’s range of sight. Could something see without eyes? This thing seemed to. Maybe Paracelsus could use a flash grenade to --

He turned to the Plague Doctor, but she was grabbing for one of her toxic grenades instead, muttering to herself. “If it can’t bleed, perhaps it can burn.” 

Meanwhile, Reynauld was still amidst some surreal fencing match with the living corpse. It swung its rusted spike, somehow still formidable without muscles or tendons, but the Crusader parried them easily enough. He cut through the thing’s ribcage, sliding between the bones and barely hurting it. None of them seemed to know how to effectively handle this thing. 

Dismas crouched and aimed down the barrel, lining up the perfect shot if the damned thing would just stop swinging. “Junia, now!” 

The Vestal lifted her mace to the ceiling and Dismas wasn’t sure what to expect, but a radiant glow filled his eyes as she aimed a dazzling ray of light right at the bone soldier. It screeched and fell back, using its other arm to shield its face from the holy glow. Maybe having two bastards of the Light wouldn’t be such a bad thing in a crypt crawling with reanimated skeletons. 

Before the creature could recover, Dismas shot at the exposed shoulder joint, blowing it apart with one bullet. The spike clattered to the ground, along with its humerus and forearm and Reynauld reacted immediately, barreling it over and pinning it to the floor with his knee now that he didn’t have to defend himself.

The three of them ran over to Reynauld, kneeling on the skeleton that was still clawing at the Crusader’s bascinet with one hand. 

“By the Eternal Flame…” whispered Junia. 

"Reanimated bones…” Reynauld bit out, digging his weight into the thing’s cracking breastbone for emphasis. “How can such a thing exist?"

Paracelsus was frantically writing in her notebook, then appeared to be taking measurements of the creature still hissing and flailing at the Crusader. “It was blighted easily enough, but is immune to bleeding effects…” she mumbled to herself.

Reynauld reached down with both hands, grabbing the hilt of Dismas’ knife in one hand and the ivory skull in the other, then dislodged it with a hard _yank_. He handed it to the highwayman, who accepted it with a soft thanks. Together, the four of them looked down at the abominable thing and the unspoken question hung in the air -- how do you kill something that’s already dead?

They all tried their hand at killing it, with the end result being Reynauld smashing the thing to splinters and fragments beneath his heavy boot. Dismas didn’t know how the man wasn’t worse for the wear afterwards -- the sound of bones crunching still echoed in Dismas’ ears. At the very least, he was grateful it wasn’t him doing the dirty work.

“So it continues,” Reynauld said eventually, looking down at the mess of bone he created. “These horrors seem endless.” 

“I can see why I was sent here,” agreed Junia. “It is truly a foul place.”

“I would have arranged for this sooner had I known we’d be engaging with living _corpses_ ,” Paracelsus sounded truly in awe. Dismas didn’t want to be here a second longer, though, and he clutched at his lucky coin in his jacket. 

“We should keep moving, so we can get the hell out of here.”

~~~~~

That wasn’t the last skeleton they fought, much to their dismay. There were bone soldiers of all types -- some with swords, some with clubs, some with crossbows. They even ran into one that might have been nobility of some sort -- that one seemed to greatly weigh on their sanity, the way it drank it’s decrepit red wine and spilled it down its open belly. Reynauld had gotten some splashed on him, and finished the creature off with a particular hostility and crazed shout. 

They eventually developed a decent method for dispatching them -- Junia would blind them with her dazzling light, Paracelsus would poison them with her toxic grenades, then Reynauld and Dismas would pick them off one by one. Usually, he left the ones closest to them to the Crusader and he would fire grapeshot blast after blast at the ones still shambling towards them. It was a good arrangement, effective, but sometimes Dismas would have to lunge at a skeleton sneaking up on Reynauld, and Reynauld would have to swing back up to the front at ones that threatened to overwhelm Dismas. 

He hated to admit that they worked well together. 

The skeletons seemed endless but eventually they found a reprieve inside of a sideroom, filled with dusty bookshelves and an alchemy table, much to Paracelsus’ elation. She shuffled through the broken experiment equipment, the broken vials and beakers, illegible notes, table dripping liquids, while everyone else looked around or tended to wounds.

Junia was healing a particularly nasty gash on Dismas’ arm when he saw movement, just barely, just out of the corner of his eye hidden away in his peripherals. It was a flash of red and he was immediately on guard.

“Dismas?” 

Everyone was staring at him. “I saw something there, down that hallway,” he explained. 

Paracelsus moved away from the alchemy table and looked down the narrow hallway in question, still holding their half lit torch. It had been easily overlooked when they first arrived, and was more of a rift in the wall than an actual corridor. They’d have to walk in a single file line if they explored it. She returned and shook her beaked head at them. “It’s empty. The light is low, and we’re all stressed out. We should stay on the path we’re on so we don’t lose our way.” 

“There was something there,” Dismas insisted. “Someone, maybe.”

“Should we risk it?” Junia asked Reynauld, as if the damned man were their leader or something. _Feh_. “We don’t have many torches left…” 

The Crusader looked down the black hallway, then turned to stare at Dismas for a long moment. It made him shift, uncomfortably, knowing those striking blue eyes were goring into him. Eventually, Reynauld nodded and said, “We should investigate any lead, no matter how seemingly insignificant.” 

Dismas smiled slightly, under his neckerchief. Maybe paying for his drinks the night before had been a good idea after all, if it got him on the Crusader’s good side. If it got him his way, anyway.

They all turned down the thin opening and shimmied inside, light skewed against the walls and exposing cobwebs. It was hard to breathe in here, and the four of them kept close together -- Reynauld, Dismas, Paracelsus, then Junia. Dismas was starting to doubt his own sanity and whether or not he actually saw anything when something bright and tiny pricked into existence, a light at the end of the tunnel. They quickened their steps, echoing in the small space, until the passage eventually widened into another side room. 

...and opened up to three people sitting around a skeleton, lying motionless on the floor. 

It was two large men and a woman in red, all wearing skulls over their faces, all turning up to look at them in surprise as they fell into the room. The heavyset Brawlers jumped to their feet immediately and Dismas could see just how burly they were -- they were shirtless and their bulging muscles were covered in a litany of scars. On their arms, they had deadly looking gauntlets that curved down into long, clawlike spikes. They raised them and lunged at Reynauld, who managed to shield himself with his forearms as all four claws came down on him. 

“The holy Light is relentless!” he shouted as he caught their attacks. His armored forearms were scraped and bit into by the spikes, but Reynauld held firm under their strength. 

Dismas quickly grabbed his dirk and pushed beneath Reynauld’s arm to get close, then swung up. He cut into the sweet, familiar feeling of flesh -- he relished in how malleable it was compared to everything else they had been fighting lately -- pushing his blade into the chest of one of the Brawlers and forcing him back. Reynauld grappled with the other one, allowing Junia and Paracelsus to slip past. 

“Gods above, finally something that bleeds!” grinned Dismas as he slashed through the Brawler’s chest with a wicked slice. Blood leaked from the wound and the bigger man stumbled, arm claws raised in an ‘X’ to defend his chest. 

Over the adrenaline pumping in his ears, Dismas heard Paracelsus call out a warning. “The woman! She’s trying to flee!”

With a grunt, Dismas took a wild shot in her direction, hoping to at least knick her, but the bullet hit a wall instead. Paracelsus threw a stun grenade at her but the cultist was too fast and slipped away, down another corridor. Reynauld cursed, then lanced through the Brawler he was still struggling with. Meanwhile, Junia came up behind Dismas and raised her large mace as the highwayman continued to slice his knife into the cultist’s broad chest. Dismas moved, quickly, and the Vestal slammed her mace through the skull mask the Brawler wore, indenting it into his own skull and felling him with a heavy bash. 

“We should go after her,” Reynauld breathed heavily. He was bleeding through his forearm gauntlet, but he didn’t pay it any attention. “They seemed to be protecting her.”

They nodded and gave chase, running through the room, past the prone skeleton, into the darkness of the other passage. When they reached the end, they all but crashed into a group of bone rabble, swords and clubs raised ready to strike. They broke formation, surprised at the new line of enemies, but Dismas managed to keep an eye on the female cultist. She was standing in a corner, a smile on her blood-red lips just beneath the skull mask hiding her face, as she watched the group of skeletons advance on them. 

At the very least, it meant she was trapped in there with them. 

The soldiers didn’t go down easily. Junia had taken a crossbolt to the leg and the rest of them were bleeding from various cuts and gashes. They only had the upper hand thanks to Paracelsus’ toxins, eating away at the bare bones minute by minute until they all eventually crumbled. That just left them and the cultist acolyte. 

Maybe it was over-confidence, or perhaps mere malice, that had Dismas stepping forward with a grin on his face and his gun at the woman. It took him a second to register that she was still smiling as well when something appeared from nothing. From thin air, right before him.

It looked like a portal, opening wide right before him. 

He stopped mid-step and didn’t have time to react before something flew from the depths of the portal, full force, into his stomach and wrapped snugly around his torso. It squeezed the air out of him and he dropped his gun with a gasp, looking down in horror at the fleshy arm encompassing him.

A _fucking tentacle_. 

Panicking, Dismas felt those same cracks in his sanity as he did when he was face to face with the Shambler so many nights ago. 

The tentacle pulled, yanking him forward, and he lost his footing. His eyes went wide as he fell to the floor, still being dragged by the appendage. What Eldritch nightmare were they dealing with now, and how did this woman manage to summon it to her whim? His hysteria mounted as he looked around for a weapon, a stone, anything. Where were the others? Where was Reynauld? _Sod it all to hell_!

As quickly as it came, the tentacle released him and withdrew back into the portal, which blinked out of existence. Like waking from a nightmare. His abs were sore and his clothes were muddied with dirt and Eldritch muck, but otherwise there wasn’t a trace of the creature left. 

Dismas rose, tenderly holding his sides, and looked up.

Reynauld was there, holding the woman by the throat with his sword to her stomach. She was no longer smiling. He threw her against the wall, roughly, and glanced back to Dismas. The highwayman grabbed his flintlock, still holding his middle where he was sure he’d have some bruising, then gave Reynauld a thumbs up. Junia was at his side immediately, checking for any broken ribs to heal, but Paracelsus strolled right up to the cultist with her notebook open and her charcoal in hand. 

“Wonderful. We have some questions that we’d like you to answer,” she stated in her usual dispassionate voice. “We’re very interested in your work, you see.”

The cultist hissed and spat, right on the Plague Doctor’s beaked mask. Reynauld pressed his sword harder against her exposed stomach, drawing a slight line of blood that leaked into her already-red skirts. “Unless you want that to be the last thing you do, you’ll answer the doctor’s questions.”

“Why?” the woman asked in a hoarse voice, through Reynauld’s vice grip on her throat. “You’ll kill me anyway.”

“Actually, no.” Paracelsus cleaned the spittle from her mask with a handkerchief. “We’ve been tasked with finding information regarding the source of all this corruption.” She waved to the general room. “Our plan was originally to take you captive, then torture you until you broke down and told us what we want to know. _Then_ kill you.”

Dismas shuddered at her matter-of-fact tone. And he thought _he_ was ruthless. 

She continued. “If you can tell us how you manage to reanimate the dead, it would be very helpful indeed.”

The acolyte hissed again, and Reynauld shook his head in disgust. “If she’s not going to cooperate, we should just kill her now and keep searching the crypts, instead of wasting our torchlight.” 

“I could see if a Judgment spell helps her find her voice,” added Junia.

Instead, Dismas stepped forward and tried a more subtle approach, voice gentle, cunning. “Listen here, sweetheart,” Paracelsus tapped her foot impatiently and Reynauld made an uncertain noise in his bascinet. Dismas, however, smiled cooly and gestured to the rest of them. “My friends here are all quite bloodthirsty after the day we’ve had. They would love nothing more than to tear you limb from limb, if nothing else than at least to relieve some stress.”

He saw her squirm uncomfortably under Reynauld’s restraint, and Dismas put a hand on Reynauld to let her go. The cultist’s eyes went wide as he did so, reluctantly, and was placed back on her feet.

“See? There we go,” Dismas continued with his velvet voice, soothing. It was something he learned to do back with his band of brigands -- someone would play the scary thug and he would play the honeyed conman when they needed answers. “Look, all we want is to get what we came here for and go on our merry way.”

“To your death,” she wheezed out, rubbing her throat muscles where Reynauld’s armored hand had left a mark. “Leave now, or you will regret it.”

It took a moment for Dismas to decide if she was threatening them or not. He didn’t think so, based on the fear in her eyes behind the mask. “What is bringing back all of these corpses? What reanimates the dead?” 

She didn’t answer, but something seemed to click for Paracelsus. “Of course! A Necromancer. It’s so obvious that I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before.”

Dismas turned from the doctor to the cultists, who nodded her head in affirmative. “A devil walks these halls. We cultists only use his creations for means to our own ends.” Something about that struck Dismas as odd. She wasn’t working with the Necromancer? 

“And those means are...?”

This time, she answered immediately, proudly. Smugly. “To bring back the one true god.”

_Oh right. Cultists_. Of course they have some disgusting creature they worshipped and wanted to bring to life. Reynauld tensed next to him and he heard Junia gasp. Paracelsus stepped forward and asked, “And how do you plan to do that?” The woman spat again, this time at the floor. It made Dismas’ blood boil, but he kept his calm and simply raised an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to speak.

“He is already among us.”

That chilled Dismas to his bones, and he looked to Reynauld. Was their god that shambling creature on the Old Road? Was it the one who created the mushroom zombie? He wasn’t sure if this woman even knew what kind of Hellspawn she was summoning, in that case. 

“Where can we find this Necromancer?” Paracelsus pushed. 

The cultist stared at each of them through her mask, as if deciding to risk her life by refusing to answer. Eventually she smiled, sinisterly. “If you are all that eager for death, so be it. The Eldritch creation is straight ahead, down the next three corridors behind a large metal door. He is in the heart of the crypts, surrounded by the royal corpses to be his playthings.” 

It was a strange relief, knowing there was an end in sight. Even if it meant them having to fight back hordes of skeletons to get to the crux of it all. And they now knew that the cultists weren’t behind the undead, but they were using them for something even more perverse. 

“You will not survive,” she croaked out, still clutching her throat. “Only the mad or the desperate go in search of him!”

Dismas smiled at her, charmingly. “Luckily, we’re both. Thank you for your cooperation, miss.” With that, he slammed his dirk straight into her chest, between the exposed cleft of her breasts, then withdrew just as quickly with a bloody arc. She let out a gargling gasp, eyes wide in shock as she stepped back into the wall, blood like a waterfall from her open chest wound, then collapsed to the floor. He wiped off his blade on her skirts and straightened. The rest of them looked stunned as he did so. “What? Sick a filthy, otherworldly tentacle on me and you’ll meet the same end.”

“I’m fairly certain the Heir wanted someone brought back _alive_ , Dismas,” Paracelsus tutted. Reynauld kicked over the still-warm body and searched it for anything useful. Just some gold and smelling salts, plus a small trinket that he pocketed. 

He rolled his eyes, unconcerned. “We can drag back the Necromancer, then. He’s gotta get his power from somewhere.”

Junia nodded, looking everywhere but the dead cultist pooling blood at their feet. “His dark powers must be linked with the evil aura that haunts the Hamlet. And besides, we have to put a stop to these skeletons, if we can help it.”

“Then let us get a move on.” Reynauld held open their pack, voice grim. “We don’t have many torches left.”

It didn’t take them long to find the door the cultist had spoken of. It felt like they were miles underground, and the torch bloomed wicked shadows on the iron-wrought door and walls. The Vestal gave a small squeak and crossed her chest with the holy symbol, staring up at the large passage. They were all already so exhausted from their numerous battles leading up to this point that there was an eerie, resounding silence and thick tension as they all drew their weapons.

Reynauld stepped to the front and looked back to the women. “Stay behind me. We shall prevail.” They nodded back to him and seemed slightly more at ease, the damnable man inspiring as always. Dismas rolled his eyes; perhaps he should try and say something encouraging as well to further lift their spirits.

“At the very least, if we’re killed then it’s not like we’ll stay dead.”

He felt the mood dampen instantly as everyone looked at him. The Vestal was glaring and the Plague Doctor shook her head at him. Whoops. He didn’t bother to hide his own smirk behind his cowl as he looked to Reynauld and nodded. The Crusader nodded back, then put both hands on the metal door and _pushed_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there even plot? Guess we'll see. Next chapter will have a bit more action and fluff


	7. Necromancer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter almost went in the garbage too many times to count. I'll post a new chapter in a couple days to hurry past this one, sorry. 
> 
> I had to take a lot of liberties with the boss fight to keep it away from "he attacked, then she attacked, then it attacked", etc. That plus later angst drove me to an early glass of wine.

**7\. Necromancer**

The inside was pitch black. Paracelsus lifted the torch higher, trying to bleed the light into the room, but it was a suffocating wall of darkness. 

A moment later, the smell hit them. 

It sent them reeling, stepping back as if it were a blunt force and shielding their faces. Dismas tied his handkerchief up over his nose to block out the stench as best he could, but it was making his eyes water. Reynauld and Paracelsus had their mask and bascinet, but poor Junia turned around to throw up onto the wet stones. The air spewing from the room felt damp and cold and made the torchlight flicker. There was no sound from within, as if this room were some black hole ready to swallow them alive.

Every one of Dismas’ mental alarms were going off; this room was filled with death and greedily beckoned for their own. Reynauld, ever the stalwart, hefted his sword in front of him and took a firm step forward.

“Let’s go.”

Dismas held his own weapons in front of him, feeling as if he were walking in blind. Blessedly, the light leached into the dark, inch by inch, step by step, as they crept into the room. He squinted over his cowl, still tied tightly over his nose, and let his eyes adjust to the dark. The room was massive -- maybe two times the size of the tavern -- and the walls reached up high enough that he had to crane his neck back. The light didn’t even touch the ceiling, but it did throw shadows all along the walls themselves which held troves of catacombs. They were all stacked neatly and sealed with dust, an engraving on most of them showed that they held the royal corpse of a noble house within.

It made Dismas’ stomach clench painfully with growing dread. 

Eventually, his eyes adjusted to the dim room enough to spot something in the center, a vague outline of what looked to be a tall-backed vintage chair. As they moved closer, breaths held and bodies tense, the light edged more and more of the chair into view. Dismas watched as the legs of the chair were exposed, then an old frayed robe. They walked closer and the light crawled up the cloth, up the chair, until thick chains came into view in stark contrast against the blood-red material of the robe. It took Dismas’ brain a few moments to fully register and piece together what he was looking at.

His dread only sharpened and twisted, like a knife in the gut. His heart was pounding, and he was sure the others could hear it in the stifling silence. 

For all intents and purposes, the figure looked to be a blackened corpse in a tattered red robe with chains hanging across its lap and chest. A wrought-iron spiked collar hung heavily around its neck, cutting into its shoulders which were hunched over. It looked to be rusted with blood, and its face was covered by the red cloth drawn tight around its head, like a body bag. The only skin exposed on the thing were the greyish black, dilapidated hands hanging from the arm rests, long fingernails grown to points. The skin appeared to be mottled and rotting around the knobby bones and in one hand was a long scroll that fell to the dusty floor.

“Is it… dead?” Junia whispered, breath visible in the cold, dank air.

At that moment, the creature snapped its head up, back straightening against the chair and spoilt hands clenching the armrests. It hissed out a long breath through the cloth around its face and mouth, decayed muscles all twitching to life at once as it seized horribly. The hiss turned into a shrill _screech_ that echoed around the room and tore through his eardrums. Dismas acted on instinct, for better or worse, and aimed down his barrel for a split second before firing a bullet straight into the creature’s hidden face.

It writhed and contorted, still spasming but now with a hole in the cloth to expose… death. A rotten face, skin pulled tight against the bone, patches of the grey flesh completely gone, lips shriveled back to a gaping mouth with missing teeth and blackened gums. He could smell the creature from here, through his neckerchief, and gagged into his arm, still outstretched. 

The thing suddenly stopped thrashing and clenched its hands into claws, stiletto nails pointed to the ground on one hand and raising the long scroll with the other. Everything seemed to stop as they watched it strain its long, spidery fingers against an unknown force until it managed to yank _up_ with its free hand.

Reynauld seemed to know what it was trying to do and shouted, “Junia! Stop him!”

The Vestal acted quickly, raising her mace high into the air and shouting, “You are damned!” before summoning a massive beam of light from gods know where, straight down onto the moving corpse. 

Dismas covered his eyes, but the flash of light was just enough to light up the entire room and when he looked again, he saw it -- saw _them_ \-- numerous skeletons all pushing open their casks. All sitting up. All turning towards the four of them with their sunken hollow sockets and cobweb grins. The monster creaked up from the chair with a rasping noise, limbs grating loudly, hands still flexing open and closed. 

Paracelsus yelled out, “ _Duck_!” then tossed a grenade that exploded in a toxic cloud, covering the Necromancer in a sickly green sheen. That seemed to barely deter it as it pointed at the four of them with a long, black nail. The sound of more scraping, more groans and rasps, accompanied the dozen corpses all climbing out of their tombs. Even from up above, they watched the casks open and bodies of bone and filigree came falling to the stones below, landing with a sickening _crunch_ all around them.

The four of them backed up, Junia and Paracelsus trying to manage the crowd of skeletons while Dismas and Reynauld stayed to the front, shoulder to shoulder. The Necromancer faded from their light, lost to the blackness just outside of the torch’s glow. _Fuck_. They needed to kill that thing, fast, before it continued to summon a skinless army of bone rabble. 

“This would be a lot easier with my holy scroll,” Reynauld bit out, fending off a particularly heavy blow from a skeleton’s shield. 

Dismas laughed a short, breathless laugh. “I said I’ll get you a new one.”

Junia cast her Judgement spell again and again, dispatching the unholy creatures with ease while Paracelsus hurled what felt like an endless barrage of poison grenades. Dismas wondered, vaguely, if it was safe for them to breathe in the stinking, enclosed room when he felt something sear through his shoulder. 

He cried out, a loud echoing noise. Something punctured his jacket, his skin, with such a force that it pushed him back and broke their formation. 

A crossbow bolt was sticking out of his body, slicked red with blood.

Before his stunned eyes, another one was shot at him but Reynauld managed to knock it from its course with a swipe of his sword. The distraction was just enough to turn the tide, and the skeletons took the opening and surged forward. Reynauld pushed them back, but it wasn’t enough. Dismas had broken off the wooden shaft and yanked it free, and was in the middle of the Vestal’s healing spell when one grabbed her skirts. She bashed it with the mace, but they were broken. 

Shoulder healed, Dismas watched in horror as Reynauld was surrounded and drawn into the pit of them. How long would that armor last for? Junia, now holding the torch, had taken to bashing them in the skulls with her mace, stunning them, which was far less effective than using her holy magic for crowd control. Paracelsus had her knife out, useless against bones, but continued her onslaught of poison grenades. 

"Gods! The earth crawls with these bastards!"

They were going to die here at this rate, killed by an army of undead only to be remade into one of them. Reynauld sounded desperate as he bellowed, “Fiends from the Pit, you shall not have me!”

Dismas bit his lip; they would die here. _Bleed and fight, flail and fall… What does it even matter at this point?_ Why were these Eldritch fucks _always_ pushing Dismas to the brinks of despair? He wasn’t even sure they could find the Necromancer, hiding in the dark.

He pushed a skeleton soldier back roughly, doing what little he could to keep them at bay. He swiped with his knife to no avail and turned to fire a grapeshot blast at the many fiends swarming Reynauld, hoping beyond hope to give the man some breathing room. Fired at the masses overwhelming the two women, not even sure if he was hitting anything anymore. In the darkness beyond, something gave him pause in his mad gunfire frenzy. Dismas swore he saw a glint of metal -- 

\-- the Necromancer’s chain. 

An idea blossomed in Dismas’ mind amid the black despair. He flashed back to the Shambing tentacle creature and how they managed to drive it back with a holy-coated knife wound. Perhaps they could manage something similar… 

“I have a plan!” he shouted above the chaos. Reynauld looked to him for a moment before continuing his struggle against the skeleton mob. Junia and Paracelsus were still back to back, dresses and garbs being grabbed at. It looked hopeless, but Dismas knew there was still something he could manage with his remaining strength. Before his courage failed him. “Toss me a plague grenade!”

Paracelsus looked up from the fray surrounding her, leather pouch still in hand, then tossed it to him instead of into the crawling mass of bodies. Like before, Dismas took his trusty dirk and stabbed it through the grenade, which exploded in a haze and coated both him and his knife in a thick layer of whatever toxin the doctor was using against this bone army. It seemed to be effective against the undead, so Dismas hoped it would affect the Necromancer all the same -- he just had to find a way to hurl it at the fiend. He only had one shot.

“Fear not the hangman, nor the reaper!” He shouted as he leapt and ran, forcing the remainder of his energy into his legs, into his wiry body that dodged right and left. The creatures all grabbed for him, seeming to leave the other three alone as the horde turned towards him with a hissing screech. 

It was an onslaught, a gauntlet of ragged bones and swords and clubs, of wine-filled goblets being thrown at him. They all swung at him, cutting him and bruising him, coating him in malevolent bordeaux ichor. He felt the blood flow from his wounds, his adrenaline pumping, life or death just within reach. The glint of metal, the rustling chains, red robes. The overwhelming stench. He only had one shot with this, one poisoned blade so heavily coated that it burned his own fingers on the hilt. The creature hissed, a toxic rattling breath and he knew exactly where to direct his knife, exactly where to find salvation. He could see it, there just past the ring of light. He was close, he just had to duck beneath this arm, jump past this rusted sword --

Something hard rammed into him, shaking his bones and short-wiring his brain. His breath left him and his legs gave out as he was flung to the floor from the impact. The knife skittered away into the dark. Dismas wheezed out his remaining air and looked up. 

It was a huge, hulking skeleton -- larger even than Reynauld in full plate -- towering over him with a shield held out offensively. He had fallen on his shoulder, hard, and could see his blood flecked on the giant shield from one of his many wounds. He didn’t feel anything but dizzy, disoriented, panicked. _No!_ He scrambled in the dark, searching blindly for the knife, but the Bone Soldier stomped down on his hand. Dismas cried out, hand crushed beneath the heavy boot, and tried to shake the monster off of him. He grabbed his gun and attempted to ward it off with a bullet, but it was no use. The massive skeleton was all but immoveable to him with his inhuman protection and lipless snarl.

Just as Dismas let out a helpless sob, he felt the boot disappear from his hand. He lifted his head and saw Reynauld instead, freshly lit torch in hand, armor clawed and dented and bloody. The skeleton held his shield up as if to bash the Crusader, but Reynauld just looked to Dismas and shouted, “Go!”

Scrambling, hand throbbing painfully, Dismas found the knife and continued on. The Crusader had plowed a path through the bone rabble army so it wasn’t as dizzying a flight, but it was just as frantic. Dismas tested his trigger finger, gently -- it was stiff and on fire, but it moved enough to pull a trigger. The Necromancer was backing up, still trying to hide behind his reanimated corpses, but Dismas was pissed. Furious. 

“Taste the sting of blade and ball, fool!” He fired at the decrepit beast, right into its robes. 

Behind him, he heard Junia cast another holy Judgement spell, filling the room with light which came crashing down on the Necromancer. With the corpses all focused on Dismas again, it seemed to give the two women a reprieve. Thank the fucking gods. 

The Necromancer was up against a wall now, trying to raise even more dead. Dismas and the others had nearly been among them, but he lunged forward, knife out like a viper. Desperation and fury fueled his attack as the blade bit into the Necromancer’s neck, piercing deep and thrusting out the other side. His skin still tingled hot from the poison, hand still pulsing in agony, but no blight or broken bones could stop him now. The smell of the living corpse brought tears to his eyes and threatened to upturn his stomach, but he held steady as he sliced through. 

When he pulled back, the Necromancer’s head was attached by nothing more than a bit of dead grey skin, held up only by the thick iron collar circling its neck. 

“Just die already!” Dismas shouted hoarsely. He felt weak, sickened.

More skeletons were falling from the crypts and crawling towards him. He shot at each one of them, angry that his plan hadn’t worked. That he’d failed. The Necromancer was clearly poisoned, still singed with a sickly greenish hue and weak from their final attack. But it wasn’t enough -- they’d be long dead before the Necromancer fell from the blight.

“Light, guide my sword!” he heard Reynauld’s inspiring cry, voice booming in the large room. “I will smite thee!” 

Dismas watched with reverence as the Crusader shot forward, sword out like a holy lance, and thrust the blade into the Necromancer. With a mighty yell, he pivoted and sliced upward, cleaving the head clean from the body and finishing what Dismas failed to do. The head plopped to the ground and the spiked collar came after, clattering with a sharp echoing ring. The long scroll it used to raise the dead fell to the ground as well, now dim and folding in on itself like a shed snakeskin. Dismas grabbed it, wadding it up in his shaking hands and stashing it in his coat; perhaps they could sell it, or at the very least burn the damned thing to the ground.

Around them, the bone rabble army fell bit by bit. Dismas sat there, stunned, listening to the frantic battle suddenly end with a thunderous pandemonium of noise. The way the bones and weapons hit the floor, it almost sounded like applause. 

In all the madness of racket and stench, Reynauld turned around, covered in blood and filth, sword slick with black ichor death, and held his hand out to Dismas. 

His heart was pumping hard, still on a high from the adrenaline and his mad dash through dozens of corpses as the relief of yet another near-death settled in. He reached out with a shaky hand, elated but too tired to smile, then stopped. It still burned. Dismas pulled his arm back and took off his glove, grimacing. His hand, it stung with a greenish tinge from the blighted knife, veins alight with Paracelsus’ crafted fire.

He looked back up at Reynauld, who stooped down over him in alarm, and said “Shit,” before collapsing against the stones. 

~~~~~

Dismas came to slowly. 

The first thing he wondered was why he felt so hungover, before realizing that he had passed out. _Again_. By the gods, could Dismas even manage a fight without passing out anymore? He must be getting soft in his age.

He groaned as he flexed his hand and opened his eyes. Paracelsus was standing over him, staring down her beak, jar of leeches in her hand. _Well, this is a familiar sight_ , he thought bitterly. A moment later, Reynauld and Junia came into view over him. The Vestal said a few holy words and washed him in a pale, soothing light, which he sighed in sweet relief at and closed his eyes again, pain making way to embarrassment. 

They had survived their encounter with the Necromancer, though not because of him. That was fine, as long as the damned thing was actually dead and gone this time. He just wished all that bravado and valiance so rare to him had actually amounted to something, other than him having to be dragged from the battle.

He felt below him -- he was on a hard wooden table. The hangover feeling was gone now, blessedly chased away by Junia’s soft-spoken words and Light-warmed blessings. He’d never admit it, but Dismas felt eternally indebted to them both; he didn’t want to think about what would have happened without them there. What would have happened if Reynauld wasn’t there. Actually, he might have preferred that if it meant no one were around to witness his folly.

Dismas managed to sit up stiffly and looked around. He had hoped they were back at the Hamlet, safe and sound and just a short walk from the tavern. They weren’t. 

Panic gripped him as he recognized the familiar dark walls of the ruins. “Where are we?”

“The same room we stopped in before,” Paracelsus said as she secured the jar of leeches and tucked them away in her pouch. “After you succumbed to the blight, Reynauld had to carry you until we could tend to your wounds.”

Her words were neutral, offhanded, but Dismas felt them like a searing slap to his ego anyway. He looked to Reynauld but immediately turned away, ears burning. Not only did Reynauld finish what Dismas couldn’t, but he then had to drag his sorry, poisoned ass from room to room. It was the second time Dismas literally had to be carried from a fight -- by this man in particular -- and Dismas hated himself for it.

Feh. He needed a drink. 

“You had lost a lot of blood and your hand was broken,” Reynauld explained mildly. Nonchalant. Insulting. “On top of that, the poison -- ”

“Thanks, but,” interrupted Dismas. “Next time, just leave me there.” 

Reynauld’s face was hidden behind the metal wall of his bascinet and he fell silent, but Dismas just imagined those piercing steel eyes narrowing, his jaw set and nose crinkled. He probably expected some big fanfare, some eternal gratitude and tearful thanks, with singing angels and virgin kisses or whatever the hell heroes normally received. Whatever he was looking for, Dismas didn’t have it and he didn’t want to give it to him anyway. His ears still burned with shame.

Instead, the Crusader stayed silent and placed something on the table next to Dismas, then withdrew to the other side of the room. Dismas looked down -- rations. He hadn’t thought they had any left. _Must’ve been something the bloody Crusader hid away_. Dismas reached down and gnawed at one, hesitantly. He felt better almost immediately with something in his stomach; it didn’t abate the embarrassment, but at least he didn’t feel like he was on the brink of death anymore. Which he apparently had been, for the second time in over two weeks.

“Sorry,” Dismas muttered, not able to handle the awkward silence he created. The room was small, suffocating -- a vast change from the room he passed out in. Behind him, Junia was rummaging around in a bookshelf and Paracelsus was creating more plague grenades. “I didn’t mean that. It’s not your fault I couldn’t kill the Necromancer.”

The damned helmet continued to hide Reynauld’s face, and Dismas was glad. He didn’t want to see whatever stupid expression was surely beneath. Was he smug under there? Self-righteous? Was he _pitying_ him?

Reynauld just shook his head and stepped closer, carefully, as if Dismas were some feral cat he had to coax the fight out of. “You dealt a grievous blow to it. If you hadn’t -- ”

Dismas wouldn’t let himself be cajoled -- he didn’t need much in life, including this man’s mercy. “I was knocked down and poisoned myself, then missed the mark.” He bristled. His tone sounded sullen even to himself, but he held his ground. He wouldn’t let the Crusader’s words wheedle him into any kind of empty self-victory, even at the cost of sounding like a petulant child. 

“You redirected the army, you turned the tide of the battle,” urged the other man.

Something in Dismas resisted, loudly, stubbornly. They were cut from different cloths, he and Reynauld, and it was painfully obvious to the highwayman, so his empty appreciation meant nothing to him. He didn’t want Reynauld thinking he had that kind of effect on him, didn’t want him thinking he could make Dismas feel _heroic_. Didn’t want him thinking that Dismas valued his opinion, that his cheeks flushed from his praise. He’d rather be back with the Necromancer than admit to that, even if his reddened ears gave it away. If anything, he was frustrated that it only took two battles, two moments of life or death, to make him redden like a lass. So he did what he was best at, and lied.

To Reynauld, to himself, to the void above.

“Only because you kept that giant soldier from stomping my ass into the ground.” Reynauld didn’t seem like he was backing down, either, but Junia spoke up before they could continue.

“If you two are done flattering each other, I think I found something important.” 

Dismas’ face warmed at that and they all turned to her. She had a book in her hand, opened to pages that had been torn out. “It looks like an old journal of sorts. I originally thought it had been from the Necromancer, but now I’m not so sure.” They all leaned in, huddled beneath the dim light of the torch -- how many did they even have left? -- and read the ghastly text.

_Mastery over life and death was chief among my early pursuits. I began in humility, but my ambition was limitless. Who could have divined the prophetic import of something as unremarkable... as a twitch in the leg of a dead rat?_

_I entertained a delegation of experts from overseas, eager to plumb the depths of their knowledge and share with them certain techniques and alchemical processes I had found to yield wondrous and terrifying results. Having learned all I could from my visiting guests, I murdered them as they slept._

_I brought my colleagues back with much of their intellect intact - a remarkable triumph for even the most experienced necromancer. Freed from the trappings of their humanity, they plied their terrible trade anew: the dead reviving the dead, on and on, down the years. Forever._

A somber chill fell over them as Junia folded the paper and put it in her habit. “I think we should show it to the Heir,” Reynauld spoke. “See if he knows anything.”

Dismas darkened immediately. “It’s not like we have anything else to show him.”

“Not true!” Junia piped up cheerfully and reached into her pack. A moment later, she pulled out a large, metal ring. Rusted with blood, covered in spikes. Wrought-iron and odious. Familiar. _The Necromancer’s collar!_ “I’m not sure if this had anything to do with his powers, but I figured it made a nice trophy, at least.”

It gave Dismas a sense of dread, just looking at it. The thing certainly _felt_ evil, but it wasn’t as good as dragging a cultist back alive for questioning and he said as much. 

Paracelsus hummed thoughtfully at that, then reached into her far-heavier bag and withdrew a horrific trophy of her own. “Actually… we may yet have some answers.” In her hands was a large wet cloth, bundled up over something that smelled… like death itself. It was a familiar stench, bloodcurdling.

“You brought back its _head_?!” Dismas felt sickened again staring at it; as if the collar trophy wasn’t bad enough.

“Precisely,” she chirped, as if she didn’t have a rotted head in her hands, all wrapped up in the red hood and drenched in rot. As if it could have been anything else. “That contact I spoke of this morning? I had hoped he might have some use for this. He is a scholar with a particular interest in the Eldritch and his otherworldly pursuits into the void could aid us. Or at the very least, give us some insight to these hellish monstrosities we’ve been fighting.” 

Dismas was uncertain that a hunk of metal and a beheaded corpse could help them, otherworldly or not, but he didn’t care right now. He just wanted out of this shithole. 

By the time they backtracked and made it out of the crypts, up the stairs and away from the ruins, they were on their last torch but their pack was heavy with loot in exchange. Glittering gold, gems, trinkets. He wouldn’t be surprised if Reynauld’s pack were a little heavier than his, knowing the man and his impulses, but Dismas felt content being back above ground and found he didn’t mind as much. He wasn’t sure what the Crusader even spent his gold on, but Dismas had enough coin for plenty of liquor and women for the time being. At the very least, enough to celebrate this small victory. 

As they walked, Dismas thought back to the horrors they had already faced. A massive tentacle creature that consumed the very light from without and the hope from within, leaving only darkness and despair. A mushroom-infested zombie, an army of reanimated bones, cultists who were hellbent on summoning these Eldritch fiends, a lifeless lord of rot and death.

And Reynauld had stood up to every single one, refusing to back down. Refusing to give in to anguish. 

Dismas glanced at him, wondering for the millionth time what expression was hidden away beneath that helmet. He was probably exhausted like the rest of them. They’d all need at least a week to recover, Dismas was sure, which was fine since Paracelsus said it would take time for this mysterious contact of hers to arrive at the Hamlet. They were all human, after all, even their holier-than-thou Crusader.

_Their haunted little Hamlet…_ Dismas sighed. He didn’t want to consider this place home, no fucking way, but he was starting to. Against his will. _Feh_.

That same rumbling howl from before broke through the otherwise quiet night, putting all of them on edge. It didn’t sound close enough to be a threat just yet, but it made them quicken their pace back to the town. 

The moon was high overhead when they made it back to the bridge, their final torch still burning softly. Junia was staying at the abbey, as was appropriate for a Vestal, apparently, and Paracelsus departed back to her clinic where she slept. That left Dismas and Reynauld alone to walk back to the tavern, silent and solemn until eventually Dismas couldn’t take it and spoke up.

“Thanks for saving us.” _For saving me. Again_. Dismas had stopped counting who had saved who more often or when.

Reynauld cleared his throat, sounding surprised. “I only finished what you started.” 

Dismas hid behind his cowl, not liking the way that made him feel. It was far easier to hate himself for missing the kill than it was to feel… whatever this was. Happy, he guessed. Heroic. It’s not like he deserved it. He had a certain locket in his room, with two particular faces on it, long dead and gone by his hand, to keep him from ever feeling heroic. They had fallen to silence again and Dismas grabbed for something to chase it away, anything. 

_The scroll_.

“Oh, by the way…” He dug in his coat and pulled out the long leaflet of wadded up parchment, then sheepishly handed it to the other man. “I grabbed that earlier.”

Cautiously, like he was untangling a trap, Reynauld unraveled the scroll until he could read it by the streetlights. It nearly fell to his feet. Dismas supposed he should have seen what was on it first -- perhaps an unholy scroll of Eldritch gods and demons didn’t make the best gift for a Light-blessed Crusader -- but Reynauld didn’t wad it back up and throw it into the nearest trash heap, so that was a good sign at least. 

Dismas picked at his sleeves, waiting, impatient with too much to say, then began to ramble to the silence. “I figured, since I owe you a new scroll anyway, that this could work for now. Maybe. If not, we could always take a torch to it. I don’t exactly know what constitutes a holy artifact, so if it won’t work…”

He trailed off as Reunauld curled it back up, properly, instead of crumpling it like Dismas had, and tucked it away in his hauberk. “It will.” Dismas smiled at that, barely. “It’ll just take some holy water, but consider us even.”

_Even_. That had been the goal, hadn’t it? That should have been it, should have ended Dismas’ rambling, but the silence washed over them again and he couldn’t help himself.

“And sorry for snapping at you earlier,” he shoved his hands in his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting. Gratitude and apologies? These were unfamiliar, uncomfortable waters for Dismas. “These things… I’m pretty sure I’m losing my fucking mind the longer we fight them.”

The other man chuckled deeply. _That_ was familiar, at least. Uncomfortably so. Dismas kept his eyes forward, face hidden. "I've felt the same way."

The Highwayman stopped, eyeing Reynauld suspiciously over his neckerchief. He felt his temper flare again at the man’s cajoling words -- Dismas had just opened himself up about something so embarrassing, so shameful to him, something that kept him up at night, and the Crusader’s first instinct is to try and make him feel… pacified? Humored? The man was clearly trying to pour oil on troubled waters, and Dismas wouldn’t let him. "Stop doing that."

Reynauld stopped as well. "What?"

"Lying," Dismas bit out. "To make me feel better. Or to be noble, or humble, or to follow the goddamn Light and its teachings. Whatever it is you're doing, just stop it." His cheeks burned with the shame from before. “I don’t need your pity.”

Standing together, in the middle of the street, Dismas remembered the Crusader there in front of the Shambler, standing tall and giving him a thumbs up. He remembered the Crusader there, grappling with the fungus beast and bellowing against its inhuman strength. He remembered the Crusader grabbing the cultist bitch by the throat, remembered him body slamming the brick wall of a shield-bearing skeleton soldier, remembered him holding his hand out to Dismas after beheading the wretched Necromancer.

It was all so fucking _heroic_. It stirred something in Dismas that he wasn't used to.

Hope, maybe. A fool’s paradise.

All the while, he remembered himself, kneeling in the dirt, trying not to vomit and just wanting to die. Him, lying on the cold floor and choking out a pathetic sob. Him, ready to run and hide at a moment's notice, him with tears in his eyes as he passed out from the pain. Again.

Dismas looked everywhere except for Reynauld. Everywhere except for the man reaching up, grabbing his bascinet and unclasping his chin strap. Anywhere, except for him pulling it off, slowly, then gently touching Dismas' shoulder. He didn't want to, couldn't, but Reynauld waited patiently for him to finally meet his gaze. 

"Please…" Dismas broke and turned up to him. And then Reynauld was all he could see, all he could focus on; the world faded around them. "Please don't fucking lie to me." He didn't know why it was so important all of a sudden -- Dismas was a conman, a thief, he knew firsthand the value of lying. But thinking about this Light-awful paragon of bravery and goodness, standing there and lying to his face about Dismas' own worth… 

“And don’t you _dare_ pity me.”

Reynauld took a deep breath and Dismas watched him. Watched his chest and shoulders raise, watched his thick Adam's apple pull up and down against his throat as he swallowed. It was ridiculous, just so fucking absurd. Dismas got scared. He wanted to run and hide, wanted to leave people to die to save his own skin. He panicked and he missed his mark. He failed and he lost and he sinned and regretted. That was just the way of things, and the last thing he needed was for Reynauld to act like it wasn't. Like Dismas was more than just some thief kneeling in the muck, reliving his many regrets. 

No, he didn't need the man's fucking pity. Not when he had enough of his own to keep him up at night. Dismas knew his place, and some Light-beloved Crusader wasn’t going to change it. If anything, the other man just made his place more obvious and Dismas was starting to resent that. The bloody Crusader made him _want_ to be better, and he didn’t know if he could be.

Reynauld squeezed his shoulder, blessedly above the burns from the Shambler that still pained him, and spoke softly.

"I may steal, but I promise not to lie. Not to you, Dismas." Reynauld's eyes were just as intense, just as shocking as Dismas remembered them being -- like a splash of ice water pouring over him, sending shivers from his head to his toes. He trusted those gunmetal eyes, trusted their depths and kindness. The way they crinkled just slightly at the corners, brows furrowed seriously, the way they met Dismas' own without hesitance. 

Dismas wasn't sure when they had turned from enemies to agitated allies to… this. Soft-spoken words and gentle touches and -- and kindness. It wasn't something Dismas had been given before, not even in exchange for gold. It had been over two weeks and Dismas hated how much he wanted to stay in this Flame-forsaken Hamlet, small as that part of him was. Reynauld continued, "These creatures have shaken me to my very core. They make me question myself, my beliefs. I see these demons and I want nothing more than to flee with my sanity and never look back, believe me. But that's why I _must_ fight them, and I've only been able to do so with your help."

Yeah, he was losing his fucking mind alright. Reynauld’s armored hand burned his arm, but not in a bad way. Not in the way the Shambler did, or the way the knife from earlier did. It was in a way that spread everywhere else, that lit a match in his chest, in his stomach and stained his cheeks pink with a flush that he hoped was lost to the night.

It might’ve been hope, a fool’s paradise, or otherwise some new morbid fixation on all the things Dismas wasn’t, but might have been.

Dismas shook the hand off, afraid of the heady heat setting his skin alight. Afraid of the way the streetlights cast a perfect glow to Reynauld’s face, afraid of how gallant he looked even after admitting he felt the same shameful fear Dismas did. Afraid of how much he needed to hear that, how easy it was for this man to make him feel like he was more than the scum of the earth. Dismas was afraid. He needed something to relax him, as soon as possible. A drink, some cards, the brothel. Anything.

Anything before he did something he regretted. 

Without further response, he nodded to the tavern door. There was drunken laughter coming from within and joyful cheers. A stark contrast from their day and their mood. A much needed distraction. Dismas couldn’t look at the shining Crusader any longer, and his stupid, incandescent blue-grey eyes that looked to Dismas as if he were more. As if he were heroic, too.

He tried not to regret how much he’d disappoint him on that front, one day. It’s best that Dismas squash that belief in him now, before it grew to be an expectation.

Sullenly, he asked, "Want a drink?"

Reynauld smiled and looked away. The moment was gone, and Dismas could feel how tense his body was from it. He wasn’t sure if he was happy or not that the moment passed, but he did start to loosen up, thankfully. 

“Sure. My treat, this time.”

Dismas cracked him a grin, hiding the strange hollow feeling he felt. “Don’t expect me to submit to your ‘moderation’ this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me at chapter 7: wow, is this moving too fast?  
> Me at chapter 14: oh no, how slow is too slow?
> 
> Also, because I originally skipped exploring other dungeons, I went straight into the Necromancer fight completely unprepared and nearly lost Dismas. Whoops. Any feedback helps.


	8. Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer 1: Mild reference to drug use   
> Disclaimer 2: I am 100% terrible at cheesy poetry. You're welcome to just skip over that part entirely. You've been warned.

**8\. Guilt**

Dismas didn’t remember going to bed. Usually that was a bad sign. 

He didn’t want to open his eyes just yet, scared of what he’d see. Of where he’d be, or who he’d be with. Of what he’d have to run from this time. 

Slowly, he flexed his hands, stretched his arms, wiggled his toes. He wasn’t wearing his boots -- also a bad sign. When he passed out drunk, it was normally sprawled on top of whatever bed, in whatever clothes he’d been wearing the night before. Where were his boots? Curiosity got the better of him and he peeked an eye open, reluctantly. 

The bed was empty, other than him, thankfully, and his pants were still on. Good signs.

His head was pounding, of course, but he had been expecting that. What he hadn’t been expecting was his coat and cowl folded neatly on the desk with his weapons stacked on top. Nice, neat, organized. _Gods. That damned Crusader had been in here._

Dismas shot upright, instantly regretting it, but moved to a panic by the knowledge that Reynauld had been in here. Oh _hell_. What did he need to apologize for now? He wracked his addled brains, trying to remember the night before. Had he been funny and playful? Sad and sobbing? Horny and aggressive? 

Knowing him, Dismas knew it could have been any or all of the above. _Shit_. 

He jumped out of bed, unsteady, once again counting his blessings that he at least had his pants on. Though that didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t _try_ anything with the other man, knowing the vulnerable mindset he was in last night. Why did he let himself drink when he was lost in that pathetic headspace? 

Chiding himself, he tore open the door and nearly barreled into something on the ground -- a plate with a coffee press and a mug. Dismas stared at it for a long moment, then looked down the hall to Reynauld’s room. Based on the light of day from the windows, he had probably missed breakfast again and the Crusader was most likely at the abbey, away in his transepts. He turned back to the coffee press at his feet and stooped down to bring it inside. Hopefully this meant that the highwayman hadn’t royally screwed up and done something unthinkable, like tell Reynauld that he inspired him, or that Dismas maybe sort of enjoyed his presence, or that he wanted him to fuck the ever-loving Light out of him. 

That would be ridiculous.

Dismas set the tray down, roughly, causing the mug to clink against it. _Feh_. There was nothing to tell the Crusader. More than anything, Dismas was pent up and needed a lass to take it out on. It had been too long and clearly Dismas was just lusting after the person he spent the most time with, which in this case happened to be an annoying, self-righteous, surprisingly attractive holy man. 

The universe just loved to play its heinous jokes on him.

Angry, bitter, Dismas turned on the stove to the water heater and began to undress. He watched himself in the old vanity, the mirror so grimy that he could barely see his reflection, as he undid his shirt button by button. It hung open on him as he yanked off his belt, then threw off the shirt entirely and looked himself up and down. 

He didn't like what he saw.

Where he used to have thick, lean, supple muscles lacing his body up and down, shoulder to shoulder all lithe and graceful, he now instead had hard lines and gaunt hollows. His tan skin was flecked with so many scars that he couldn't even remember what they all came from. The contours of his once-impressive stomach and obliques were now caved in towards his protruding hip bones peaking out just above his pants.

_Guess this is the result of living off of alcohol and rations for the past few months_. He scowled at himself and grabbed the coffee press to pour himself a mug. It wasn't warm and it had steeped for far too long, but Dismas drank it anyway. It was bracing and helped to clear the fog in his head -- he'd have to thank Reynauld later. And potentially apologize, or potentially grovel or potentially leave town entirely. Dismas wasn't sure what to expect just yet.

As he refilled the mug, he caught a glimpse of his right arm and winced. It was a mess of angry red welts still ebbing up his arm up to his bicep like some fucked up spider web. They had lessened some and didn't look as swollen, and the gouges weren’t as gaping, but the marks were still unsightly. Appalling. A constant reminder of that night with the Shambler. He was sure the brothel girls would _love_ that.

The water in the basin was warm, finally, and Dismas threw back the rest of the bitter coffee. He gave himself one last disgusted look and threw his canvas pants into the clothes pile as well to be washed later. _Too skinny_. Sinking into the warm water, he resigned himself to working out more, eating actual food, maybe even running again. That frenzied dash through the army of undead felt so surreal, so out of body, that all Dismas remembered was the clenching pain in his calves afterwards and how out of breath he was. Maybe he would have seen the massive skeleton, maybe he would have ducked beneath the shield, would have finished off the Necromancer himself if he had just been more agile. 

He had the neurotic compulsions of a perfectionist, but not the body of one. Not anymore.

His shoulder still felt sore and locked up in certain places from the impact of the Shield Bash. He tried to massage it out, to loosen it up, to relax his muscles without letting his mind wander to Reynauld. It sort of worked, but he couldn't help but wonder how the Crusader’s strong hands could work the tension from his shoulder, from his back.

Dismas stopped himself there. He must still be drunk, to be feeling so… consumed. Over what? Over some blasted conscripted holy man who saved his life once or twice?

_Fuck_ , Dismas let his hand drop and splashed the water, frustrated. He finished rinsing off, feeling no better after, and looked around the room for something to do, something to distract him. There was a rickety desk in the corner with a pen and ink, which gave him an idea. Now if only he could find some paper…

He rifled through his belongings for a sheet to write on, passing over the shameful locket hidden at the bottom of his bag, until he finally found something -- a crumpled bar napkin hidden in his coat pocket from the night before. 

The silence was deafening as he sat down and leaned over the paper. He wasn’t sure how long he stared at it, pen dripping, mind wandering, but he was nervous. It had been years since he wrote any poetry. Dismas would stay up and hide in his tent back in his brigand days, scribbling down small poems any time he had a moment to himself. It was his dark secret -- that and literature -- that he found oddly moving. He didn’t know how to express himself any other way. While the other men in his band would fight over stolen goods or food, Dismas would sneak a book behind their backs to read by candlelight. 

After the incident, though, he had stopped reading or writing entirely. He really had just stopped caring. The words that came to him when he tried were full of self-contempt, anyway.

Dismas bit his lip as he continued to stare at the napkin. It used to be that words came to him easily, effortlessly, and he used them to create whatever he wanted. Silly sonnets or drunken sagas or tired ballads. Now, he grabbed at threads. It felt so _permanent_ somehow, like once he wrote these words into existence there would be no way to reel them back in, back out of existence. He compulsively thought back to the young mother and her child, cradled together in death from his hand. The pen still dripped, still ready for whatever Dismas chose to haunt the world with its permanence. 

He remembered why he had stopped writing poetry. It had made him feel guilty, made him relive his wretched past. His thoughts wandered to Reynauld and the way the other man acted when questioned about his own history the days before. The stiffness in his posture, the grit in his voice. 

_There’s nothing to go back to._

Clearly Dismas wasn't the only one feeling some crushing guilt of a well-hidden, poorly-buried past. He swallowed thickly and reinked his pen, then pressed it to the napkin. 

_I rend my heart open  
Like I hate to let it do  
Flayed and wrought and weeping  
And beats to something new  
It sees the pain that’s in your heart  
Now sometimes I feel it through  
Your somber eyes and dismal voice  
‘There’s nothing to go back to.’_

By the Eternal Flame, when had Dismas gotten so sappy? He slashed a long line of ink through the poem and tossed the napkin to the side. As if that could retract the words, as if that could help him live them down and forget them. _Stupid. Fucking stupid_. He growled and stood up. His first poem in years and it was some foolish, sentimental pile of dung. So much for a distraction. With a scowl, he stepped back into the basin -- the water was nearly cold now, but he didn’t care -- and rinsed himself off again. 

Maybe if his old pastimes didn’t help his mood, he could always try his usual, more private diversions. 

~~~~~

By the time anyone thought to bother him, it was well into the afternoon.

Dismas heard a knock at the door as he was polishing his flintlock and welcomed the distraction. It was hard staying entertained throughout the day when he wasn’t fighting for his life or comatose from poison. He opened the door immediately and was greeted by Paracelsus’ long beak. Apparently, the Heir had summoned the four of them to the mansion to discuss their findings. 

Great. They could show off Junia’s cool new trophy and Paracelsus’ more morbid trophy and nothing else. Nothing to beget the handsome reward promised to them.

They walked in silence to the mansion. Well, Dismas did -- Paracelsus chatted animatedly about everything she had recorded from their time spent at the ruins. Dismas hummed and nodded and shrugged when it seemed like she was looking for a response, but otherwise he was lost in thought. _There’s nothing to go back to_. It was foolish to linger on it -- Dismas hated talking about his own past and firmly decided he didn’t care about Reynauld’s.

So far, he had spent the entire day without seeing the other man. Which was fine, Dismas didn’t _need_ to see him but he did _need_ to know how awkward things would potentially be going forward. If there even was a forward. They arrived at the mansion as the sun was just past its peak overhead.

“And that’s what led to the conclusion that they are indeed edible,” the Plague Doctor rambled on about some experiment she tried the night before, after having gone back to the Weald herself for samples of Light-knows-what. Dismas knocked on the large door of the mansion, only half listening. “I found that their potency is far more manageable if they’re dried first.”

“Potency? You mean you actually ate one?” Dismas raised his eyebrows at her. 

“Of course,” she tutted. “The rats survived, though they hardly moved for hours. I wanted to see what the effects were for myself.”

“And?”

She turned to him, looking down her long mask, slim shoulders raising and falling with each deep breath. “And they are _glorious_.”

The door opened for them and they were escorted inside by a slim man wearing a white mask that had a teardrop under one eye, clothed in a suit that seemed far too big on him. Dirty hair was pulled back in a messy tie with some loose strands hanging over the mask. He looked them both up and down, then bent low to the ground with a flourish. His voice was obnoxious and sing-song behind the mask as he said, “I see the young master truly loves a good joke to have invited the likes of you, highwayman.”

Dismas quirked an eyebrow up, instantly irritated. The man then turned and bent low to Paracelsus, taking her gloved hand and pressing it to his mask as if he were kissing it.

“And you’re looking as vile and terrifying as ever, doctor. I pray for my good health.” 

Paracelsus just laughed a full-bodied laugh and waved her hand at him. “You always know how to make an old woman blush, Jingles.” Dismas just glared at him over his cowl as he led them to a sitting room. The room, much like the building itself, was in complete disrepair. Cobwebs hung from every corner, light fixtures were rusted and unlit, a thick layer of dust coated everything. It was a mansion of filth.

The Heir sat in a large, dirty chair in the center of the room by an ashen fireplace, looking pale and exhausted.

“Jeez, kid. Would it kill you to sweep?” Dismas spoke, hands in his coat pockets. The Heir’s blond head snapped up and he smiled weakly at them, then mumbled an apology. He had his strange butler, Jingles, go and fetch them some wine from the kitchen. Dismas made a note not to drink any -- he didn’t trust the wine, nor the man delivering it.

“Good _gods_ ,” Paracelsus breathed. She rushed over to the Heir and put her fingers in his hair, sounding in absolute awe as she combed through the golden strands. “I’ve never seen anything so… radiant!” 

“Uhm, thank you?” The Heir swallowed and looked to Dismas who shrugged and leaned against a wall. He had just washed his clothes and didn’t want to risk sinking into a foot of dust by sitting down somewhere. Jingles finally returned with three dirty glasses of wine -- though one looked like it had already been sipped from -- and set it down with another low bow. The Heir thanked him and raised a glass. “Thank the gods above for a drink that can dull the senses.”

To the side, Jingles bowed again and said, “You can’t dull a rock, sire.” 

The Heir just absently nodded at that and drank back the whole glass -- he seemed deeply disturbed from the last time Dismas saw him, and that had been after the kid vomited everywhere. After their run in with the Shambler. Dismas shivered at the memory and finally asked, “Where is Reynauld and the nun?”

No sooner had he spoken than a knock at the door interrupted them. Jingles sprang to his feet and practically ran to the door with glee. “The priest and a nun, you say! I know this particular joke. What a cold-blooded blessing for my poor sinner heart.”

They all listened as Jingles opened the door and greeted them. Dismas imagined he was doing his ridiculous bow as he said, “The Holy Crusader! What a pleasure to see you again, messire. Why, I feel safer already with a Light-pardoned butcher at my back.” He heard Reynauld’s annoyed grunt and Dismas cracked a smile at that. It had always been so easy to get under the man’s skin -- not that Dismas was one to talk. “And sister Vestal! Such a woman so pure of heart that even _I_ feel my many perversions slipping away in her mere presence.”

Junia cleared her throat, awkward, and Dismas saw the Heir shaking his head and grabbing another glass of wine from the corner of his eye. 

"Yes, well, may the Light be with you, good sir,” Junia mumbled softly. He imagined she was bowing back to him, which Jingles would love, he was sure. As if on cue, he heard the butler cackling a deranged laugh, stifled by his jester mask.

“Your precious Light would be quite tainted if it ever were, my dear.”

“I’ve had enough of your religious jokes, clown,” came Reynauld’s low voice. Dismas wished he could see the Crusader’s face. Maybe this butler wasn’t so bad after all.

Jingles giggled again and said, “Ironic, I was about to say the exact same thing to you both, m’lord Reynauld and Lady Vestal. This way, if you please.” A moment later, they entered the sitting room; Jingles, then Junia, then lastly Reynauld. Dismas stood up straighter and tried not to immediately look to Reynauld, to scour his body language for some sign that Dismas was in the clear. Some nod or signal to indicate how he should act around the other man.

Nothing. 

He wasn’t even acknowledged. Dismas deflated some and slouched back against the wall after staring at the Crusader for a few strained moments, arms crossed. Guess that was all the indication he needed. _Shit_. That’s what he got for letting his guard down.

“Junia!” Paracelsus chimed in. “Have you _seen_ your robes lately?” The Vestal looked down at her outfit, clearly confused. They had been the same ones she’d been wearing yesterday, just slightly cleaner from the looks of it. Still, Paracelsus swayed up to her side and grabbed her arm. “They look _fantastic_ on you! Hold on, I’m getting emotional. I must record this.” The doctor pulled out her notebook and scribbled something down, frantically. 

“Para ate something weird,” explained Dismas. “From the Weald.” 

“A mushroom,” Paracelsus nodded her long beak at them, then put away her notebook. “A psychotropic, to be exact. One that I am still feeling the effects of, apparently.” 

“Aren’t we all…” he rolled his eyes and Jingles cackled from the front room.

Reynauld shifted uncomfortably, then asked the question that they were all thinking. “So why have you summoned us here?”

They turned to the Heir, whose lips were stained a slight purple from the two wine glasses he had drank from. “I found something, something that belonged to my uncle.” He pulled out a piece of paper -- a letter, from the looks of it -- and handed it to Dismas. “Something that might explain why this Hamlet is so… so very haunted by all these horrors since his death. I think he meant to send it to me, before he died.”

Dismas scanned the paper, crinkled and withered around the edges.

_Ruin has come to our family._

_You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial. Gazing proudly from its stoic perch above the moor. I lived all my years in that ancient, rumor shadowed manor. Fattened by decadence and luxury. And yet, I began to tire of conventional extravagance. Singular, unsettling tales suggested the mansion itself was a gateway to some fabulous and unnamable power. With relic and ritual, I bent every effort towards the excavation and recovery of those long buried secrets, exhausting what remained of our family fortune on swarthy workmen and sturdy shovels._

_At last, in the salt-soaked crags beneath the lowest foundations we unearthed that damnable portal of antediluvian evil. Our every step unsettled the ancient earth but we were in a realm of death and madness! In the end, I alone fled laughing and wailing through those blackened arcades of antiquity. Until consciousness failed me. You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial. It is a festering abomination!_

_I beg you, return home, claim your birthright, and deliver our family from the ravenous clutching shadows of the darkest dungeon I have unearthed._

A chill set in his bones. Dismas stared, read and reread, took a deep shaky breath. He glanced up, looked at the faces and masks and bascinet all looking back at him. Judging by their tense postures, Dismas must have appeared exactly as horrified as he felt. He looked down at the paper again and cleared his throat, before passing it on to Reynauld. The man could read it for himself. Honestly, Dismas couldn’t even begin to process the words on the paper, couldn’t digest their meaning past the sheer dread that had settled into his mind.

All he knew was that this place felt doomed, and now he was intertwined in it. Great.

“He spent our entire fortune on some… deranged fantasy, some construction project!” The Heir sobbed out. “He says he dug out miles and miles of tunnels beneath our manor. All in search of this make-believe portal!” He grabbed the last glass of wine with a shaking hand, nearly spilling the red liquid as he drank deeply. “Mother always said he was stark raving mad…”

Reynauld stilled as well, reading the paper, then roughly handed it off to Junia. After she read it, she gasped, her voice full of dread, “I recognize the handwriting...”

The Heir looked up at her, eyes sad and tired and drunk. “What do you mean?”

She seemed shaken and reached into her robe, then pulled out a similar piece of paper. Dismas was still lost in thought, but Junia waved it at them animatedly. “The note! From the ruins!” The four of them gathered around the Heir and looked from the letter his uncle left him to the journal entry found within the ruins. “It’s the same handwriting, isn’t it? I had thought it was from the Necromancer before he… well, died for the first time. But I think it _is_ from the Ancestor himself.”

Dismas reread the journal entry, then shivered. That would mean that the Ancestor had… murdered those scholars? After he had invited them to the Hamlet himself? He looked up at Reynauld, still feeling that horrid dread in the pit of his stomach.

“I think I’ll wait for the hallucinogens to wear off before I read this,” Paracelsus muttered. All of them seemed to be feeling that same creeping anticipation, that same horror.

“He…” The Heir started, then stopped, then hiccuped. “He _killed_ them?”

Junia was quick to wave her hands apologetically. “I’m not saying that, per se! Just that… well, your uncle seemed to have written both of these letters, is all… Who’s to say it wasn’t just some… creative writing of his? It's a very respectable hobby, you know.”

Behind them, Jingles laughed his crazy laugh and slithered up to the doorway. "Sweet, clueless Vestal. If there's anything old men in power want, it's more power." His voice was no longer playful and sing-song, but instead had a bitter edge to it. "No cost ever seems to be too high for them."

“That could be the origin of the Eldritch beast we found on the Old Road that night,” said Reynauld gravely. He looked up to Dismas. “Plus all the others we’ve seen since.”

The Heir groaned and put his head in his hands. “So, what, you think my Uncle is behind all this? Then why would he summon me here?” There was a long silence, until eventually Dismas shrugged and spoke up.

“Guilt?”

It seemed to be a common theme, in this Hamlet -- everyone who was drawn here seemed to be running from something, and the rest of them nodded in agreement.

"If he truly condemned these people, _his people_ , to a life of madness and horror,” the Heir spoke with a certain grit, a boiling anger that Dismas understood intimately as someone who faced down said horrors and lived. “Then I daresay death was too good for him. The Hamlet has become a mockery of what grandeur it once held and my uncle has dragged our family name through the mud, along with all of its denizens.”

An inspiring speech, to be sure, but Dismas wasn’t sure what he expected them to do to fix it, to right the Ancestor’s supposed wrongs. Whatever they could do, Dismas doubted the Heir could afford his price, anyway. 

“Did you manage to question a cultist, by the way?” the Heir perked up.

Whoops. Dismas had completely forgotten that had been their original goal when entering the ruins. He had assumed, wrongfully, that they’d be able to drag the Necromancer himself back with them and question him there. Instead, they had barely scraped out with their lives. “Sort of.”

The Heir bent back over, flush with drink. “This is hopeless, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily,” Paracelsus protested. “An old colleague of mine has agreed to pay us a visit. He seems very interested in the foul evils at work here, and thinks he might be able to commune with the source of it.”

“A madman,” Junia whispered.

“Then he should feel right at home here,” Dismas said gruffly. “I expect you’ll be paying us for any expeditions you send us on, right, kid?”

He looked up at each of them, hands spread wide to gesture at the room helplessly. “Well, I don’t have much to pay you with, but at the very least I can offer you rooms at the tavern should you decide to stay and help. And whatever treasures you find out there are yours.”

Dismas barked out a hollow laugh. This kid was asking them to go face down ungodly nightmare creatures, weed out this Eldritch infestation, risk their lives on a weekly basis for… free room and board? It was just too damn funny. “Good luck, kid,” he patted the Heir’s back as he stepped back, turned away with a huff, stalked out. He didn’t even wait for Jingles to open the door for him, he just wanted out. Out in the sunshine, with the fresh air and the heinous guilt festering in the Hamlet. 

Behind him, he heard footsteps. Heavy, armored ones that instantly soured his mood further. He swung around to face Reynauld, a snarl behind his cowl. “Don’t think for a fucking second that you can change my mind.”

Reynauld put his hands up defensively. “That’s not what I’m here to do.”

“Then why did you follow me?”

He lowered his hands, apparently feeling safe enough to take a step closer. Dismas moved back, still glaring up at him, heart pounding from his resolve. “I was worried you’d leave without saying goodbye.”

That was stupid. That was _so absurd_. Reynauld didn’t owe him anything, certainly not a goodbye if Dismas did decide to up and leave the Hamlet. To fuck off for good. Dismas didn’t want the man’s goodbye, anyway. He wanted to leave and never look back and add more crushing guilt onto the already shamefully high pile that he could only drink himself out from under. He wanted to stay up at night and wonder if Reynauld were still alive, and wonder why he still cared.

His hands were sweating in his gloves and he looked away. The drinks. The coffee. The goodbye. _Why?_ “I did something stupid last night, didn’t I?”

Reynauld’s answer came too quick, too forceful. “No.” _Yes_. 

Dismas narrowed his eyes at the Crusader. “You said you wouldn’t lie to me. Last night. I remember that much, at least.”

He heard the man sigh, watched him shake his head and take a step back. Watched him reach up and unclasp the bascinet and pull it off. Dismas hated the way it always caught his attention, that tiny _click_ , hated how he couldn’t take his eyes off the other man as the armor slid off. Reynauld looked down at him, those damnable blue eyes soft, the way Dismas always remembered them. They weren’t hateful or disgusted or whatever else the Lords of Light normally felt about Dismas, so that was a good sign. 

“You drank -- a lot,” he started. _Well yeah_ , Dismas already knew that much. His heart was pounding; why was the Crusader so hesitant? “You wanted to arm wrestle me, then you sang me a couple ballads.” _Embarrassing_. Not the worst he could have done while on a drunken bender, but wrestling and serenading the other man weren’t exactly Dismas’ first choice of a good time. “And you told me a lot about yourself, things that I never would have guessed.” _Oh gods_. Dismas never talked about himself, why would he last night? He waited for Reynauld to continue, but he seemed reluctant to.

“Such as?”

“Literature. You told me that you used to read and write. Poems, I believe.” 

Dismas’ face flushed bright red. _For fuck’s sake_. He swore to never drink again, or at least not with this Crusader -- apparently his lips were far too loose for his own good around Reynauld. He wasn’t finished.

“You told me about your time spent with the brigands, thieving and killing.” 

He froze. He didn’t like where this was going. All things considered, Dismas would’ve much rather told everyone in the bar, in the entire goddamn world, that he wrote poetry before he told anyone what he had done as a brigand. As a different man, or so he told himself. Reynauld took a breath and confirmed Dismas’ worst fear. One of them, anyway.

“And you told me… about your last night as one.”

_Red misted windows, screaming horses, rosy cheeks, blood and gore and gold and guilt_. Why? _Why?_ Why would he tell Reynauld about his biggest regret, his dark secret? His humiliating and haunting past? Was he that desperate for Reynauld’s approval? For his disapproval? Was he that eager for the man to hate him so? 

They were both quiet for a long moment. Dismas' cheeks burned with shame, he felt flayed open for Reynauld to judge and criticize as he pleased. Did the man still think so highly of him now? After exposing his mindless butchery of the young and innocent years ago? _Feh_. His temper flared and he shook, softly. He wasn't sure who he was angry at -- Reynauld or himself or even the brigands who set him up. The self-loathing was there for sure, but he hated that Reynauld now knew the darkest depths of him. Dismas would have much rather tried to come on to the other man and have him reject him and hate him for that, instead of this. 

“Dismas -- ”

“Don’t,” he interrupted. A warning. A threat. “Just, forget everything I said last night.” Reynauld’s big blue eyes, still crinkled at the edges as he frowned at him -- they bore into Dismas. Made him feel bare and exposed and dirty. He made a pained noise and looked away, embarrassment abiding his temper as he all but begged, “Please.” 

Reynauld stepped back and nodded. “Okay. I won’t bring it up again. But --”

Dismas flinched.

“I’m glad you told me. I’ve been struggling with my own actions and inactions lately,” Reynauld turned his head to the side, those glinting gunmetal eyes faraway. “The people I’ve killed and those I’ve condemned. It’s why I’m choosing to stay here.”

Their eyes locked again, implications loud and obvious between them. He wanted Dismas to stay. 

Dismas swallowed thickly, and waited a moment. Waited until he could feign nonchalance. "If you want to bleed for your sins so bad, why not just visit the flagellant halls? Staying here and dying for these people won't change your past. We could..." he trailed off, looked away, took a deep breath. "We could leave. Together."

Reynauld chuckled, dark and hollow, eyes sad. "I know. But it’s about finding redemption. I’m not proud of who I’ve been or the things I’ve done, but if I can make a difference here and now...” He shrugged and looked sheepish for a moment. It made Dismas want to ask him, want to find out exactly what he was running from as well, but he didn’t. A man is entitled to his secrets -- unless, of course, he blacks out drunk and decides to shamelessly vomit them everywhere on unsuspecting Crusaders. _Always a class act, Dismas_ , he thought to himself. Reynauld continued, “I at least want to try to atone. I understand if you still plan to leave, though.”

“You really think we could? Find redemption on the Old Road, I mean,” he was scared to feel hopeful, but Reynauld always seemed to have that effect on him. His heart welled up, just slightly, just enough to be noticeable to him, when Reynauld smiled at him. It cut dimples into his cheeks handsomely, it added more crinkles to the corners of his eyes, it turned his normally hard mouth upwards. It felt too kind and made Dismas want to both embrace and shy away from it. A fool’s paradise.

“I do.”

Dismas heaved a heavy sigh and frowned up at Reynauld, frowned at his smile, thin brows knitted together and eyes dark as he contemplated. Dangerous work, otherworldly creations, questionable teammates, shitty pay -- he guessed it wasn’t the worst job he’d done. 

“Fuck it,” he shrugged. “Who couldn’t use more redemption?” 

Fine. He’d stay. He’d stay and see how long his life lasted, how far his gold took him, how much ‘redemption’ for his sins he could really earn out here. Honestly, Dismas probably needed it more than anyone. Reynauld’s smile was back and he squeezed Dismas’ shoulder firmly -- and there was that nagging swell in his heart again, just enough to be uncomfortable. Just enough to redden his ears and avert his eyes. 

“Thank you, Dismas,” beamed Reynauld. “I know together we can rid this Hamlet of these nightmarish creatures.”

He shook off Reynauld’s hand before the heat could move from his ears to his face. It’s not like he was staying for the Crusader, so he didn’t know what the man was so grateful for. He didn’t know what it would take to get Reynauld to hate him, but he was sure he’d find out one day. He wished it would just happen already, so Dismas could finally relax around him. 

The entrance to the mansion opened and Junia and Paracelsus stepped out into the square. Reynauld put his helmet back on and Dismas shoved his hands into his pockets. Casual. Aloof. Ears red.

“Hey, so,” Dismas cleared his throat, looking anywhere but Reynauld. “Guess I’m staying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Para on shrooms is one of those too-common wine-written ideas of mine that is either a great idea or a terrible one. The jury's still out on that one.
> 
> Also, I listened to Incandescent by Aviators per one of the comments in the last chapter and the lyrics are very Reynauld. Praise the sun!


	9. Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passage of time sucks to write, sorry. I'm too impatient to write out every little expedition, but more action coming soon.

**9\. Training**

It had been over two weeks since Dismas had decided to stay. Over two weeks of drinking, writing, working out, gambling. Of spending his mornings running with Junia, his days helping Paracelsus with her experiments, and his nights shooting the shit with Reynauld. Of the four of them, venturing out and slaying the beasts that threatened their Hamlet on a few smaller expeditions; ones that didn’t stink of impending death as much, blessedly, but still rewarded them in gold and dead bone rabble. 

Occasionally, Reynauld would invite Dismas to watch him train at the guild. He refused at first, but then joined him eventually because -- why not? It didn’t seem like Reynauld was going to stop asking, and Dismas was interested to see how the Crusader honed his skills and pushed himself every day. It was clear that he was both their defender and their heavy hitter out on the field -- and Dismas wasn’t really sure what his own place was. Snarky misanthrope, mostly. Town drunk, definitely. Thanks to Reynauld, he couldn’t even be called the group’s thief anymore.

“Now you shall know how brightly the Light shines!” 

Dismas snorted at that. Reynauld would shout holy verses and things like that from time to time as he swung his longsword at the practice dummies or other men in full plate. It didn’t seem as satisfying as the shit-talking Dismas was known to do when he slew his enemies, but it did stir something in the highwayman. He didn’t believe in the Light or Eternal Flame or any of that religious crap, but he did believe in Reynauld and that was enough for him. It kept his chin up, his hand steady when he heard the Crusader shout rallying cries in the thick of things. 

That was invaluable against the beasts they were expected to fight. Even still, Dismas shivered and cupped his right arm when he remembered the Eldritch horrors they were up against.

Maybe training wasn’t such a bad idea.

It had been his third day out there, his third day of watching Reynauld in plate and mail and holy cross vanquish contender after contender, slay dummy after dummy, when Dismas finally spoke up.

“Hey,” he called. Reynauld stopped immediately and looked up at him, mid-swing, as Dismas hopped over the barrier to the training ground. He was starting to get bored, seeing Reynauld win so many matches in a row, and figured he could use the extra exercise anyway, see if he could humble the man some. “Wanna settle our draw? From day one?”

The day that had felt like months, years ago, when they stood chest to chest, knife to gun, Help Wanted poster between them like a bad omen.

Reynauld lifted the visor of the training helm, sweat on his brow, smile crooked and cocky. Eyes like an ice bath down Dismas’ spine. “I’ve been hoping for a rematch, you know.” Dismas smirked back and took off his coat, dressed down to just his shirt, pants, and cowl. The Crusader grabbed a sparring sword from the rack and gestured to Dismas with it.

“You sure you can even hold this?”

Dismas eyed the sword, then Reynauld’s buoyant grin, then set his flintlock down on his coat and unsheathed his dirk. “This’ll be more than enough for you, big guy.” 

The other closed his visor and assumed a fighting stance, something trained and perfected from years of practice by the looks of it, sword out and legs wide. Dismas wondered for just a moment whether or not this was a bad idea, fighting the holy man with only leathers and cloth protecting him, but he trusted him. The realization made Dismas pause, shift, swallow uncomfortably -- when had that happened? 

There was no time to ponder that now, not with Reynauld facing him down the tip of his longsword, and Dismas fell into a familiar crouch. He was used to the dirk being in his offhand, and he gave it a cursory swipe at the air. It felt deadly and precise. 

Quietly, they watched each other from either side of the sparring ring, tense and poised for a long while. Dismas sized him up -- he’d have to get in close to manage a win -- when suddenly he saw Reynauld’s weight shift, just slightly, barely even noticeable. Just enough for the bigger man to press off his heel and lunge forward at Dismas. 

If he hadn’t seen that slight change in position, Dismas would have lost for sure. Thankfully, his quick reflexes carried him to the side, dancing out of Reynauld’s long range.

Reynauld stopped and pivoted in one graceful motion, slicing his sword down the trajectory Dismas had dodged from and forcing the highwayman to step again, this time behind him completely. He used a dualist’s advance to cut in close, but Reynauld shifted at the last second, letting the dagger just barely scrape past his armor. The longsword swung back, predictable, and Dismas managed to parry it just enough to riposte. Reynauld shrugged past the answering stab like it was nothing, lunged, parried, dodged, parried again. 

It was like a dance, motion met by motion, step by step, neither landing a hit on the other nor providing enough of an opening to take a chance. Dismas feinted, Reynauld blocked with his arm and swiped back, Dismas ducked and stepped in. They seemed evenly matched for the moment, but Dismas knew he would tire first. His arms were already starting to grow weak, but he kept on, quick and fluid.

He had to change the game a little to gain the upper hand; he wasn’t sure how long they had been sparring, but they had started to draw a crowd. It could have been minutes or hours, all Dismas knew was his heart pounding in his ears and the unshakeable smile from his face. 

Their dance felt far too intimate for onlookers, but Dismas didn’t mind. He stepped close, past Reynauld’s lunging advance that he had obviously expected Dismas to fall back from as they had been for so long, stepped past the man’s guard. This was it, this would be the finishing blow, knife-hand angled up to where he knew Reynauld’s throat lay --

Reynauld caught his wrist and all his momentum with his armored left hand, jerking Dismas to a stop and leaving him open. _Shit_.

Reflexes alight, Dismas grabbed Reynauld’s sword hand without thinking, stilling them both and holding the other in place. He heard the sword fall to the ground with a loud clatter over the drumming in his ears, the heavy breaths between them, and Reynauld twisted his wrist until he also released his weapon. 

“You pulling your punches, old man?” Dismas smirked up at him, face flushed.

That low chuckle echoed in Reynauld’s training bascinet helmet, followed by his breathy voice. “Never. Are you ready to surrender?” 

“Never.”

With that, Dismas ducked down and kicked, swiping the larger man’s legs out from under him and toppling him over easily. Reynauld landed in the dirt with a loud _‘oof’_ and Dismas was quick to act. He snatched up his knife and dove, down into the dirt cloud he had kicked up, down to where Reynauld was winded flat on his back. Before Reynauld could return to his senses, Dismas pinned him there, hand on his chest and knife to his neck, grinning like a madman.

Reynauld finally caught his breath and laughed again, peering up at Dismas through the slits in his visor. They were close enough that Dismas could see the glint of blue-grey within. “I forget you fight dirty.”

“Not something you holy folk ever see coming,” Dismas put away his knife with a flashy flick of the wrist, the thrill of a cheap victory reddening his face and quickening his breath. He was only partially aware of the throng of people, some clapping and some booing his dirty antics, starting to disband around them. He looked up, then looked back down at Reynauld, at his hand on his chest and his ass to his hips, and felt the warmth creep from his cheeks to his ears, down his neck to his core. 

He got up immediately, like he had been burned, and tried to hide behind his cowl as he offered his hand to the Crusader. Reynauld accepted it, and he hoisted him to his feet. 

“You always know how to find a weakness,” laughed Reynauld, who patted Dismas on his sweaty back. The seasons were changing, the mornings and nights growing cooler, but it was still hot as hell during the day and Dismas had exerted himself more than usual. He’d be sore tomorrow, he knew, but he couldn’t regret accepting the challenge, not when his adrenaline still pumped hard and hot in his veins.

“Thanks for that. It was fun,” Dismas winced at the rawness in his voice -- he needed water. Or whiskey.

Reynauld seemed to notice. He took the sparring helm off and ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, smiling to him. “I expect a rematch someday, you know.” Then he nodded to the tavern. “Thirsty?”

~~~~~

Over a month of the quiet comforts and short expeditions passed in a blur. 

Things were tense, at first -- Dismas had been afraid of drinking around the Crusader for a couple of nights, afraid of what else he might say if he could so carelessly tell an almost-stranger his entire life story. But Reynauld didn’t _feel_ like a stranger to him. That’s what irritated him so much; between their easy banter and shared trauma from day one, Dismas felt a unique connection with the other man after barely two months together. When his resolve had been tested and broken, Reynauld was there to drag him from the pits of despair. 

He was starting to maybe even _enjoy_ the man’s company -- not that he’d ever tell him.

They stayed like that for the next few days, waiting for Paracelsus’ contact to arrive. Apparently he had pretty far to travel, coming from some hot, desert wasteland filled with ghouls and spirits. Alhazred was his name, and Paracelsus had met him years ago when studying at the university. She said he would provide a great deal of insight after his mysterious studies into the void. 

It made Dismas skeptical, but they were directionless until he arrived. Nothing left to do but drink and smoke and gamble --

\-- until the night he was caught cheating. 

It was an idiotic mistake on his part, a simple misstep and suddenly the hidden ace fell from his sleeve onto the table. He attempted to snatch it back up before anyone could see, and even Reynauld had tried to cause a distraction by spilling someone’s beer on the playing table. But no dice. Dismas was officially banned from the gambling halls.

“Dammit all,” Dismas griped as he ordered a beer. “There goes my steady income. ”

Reynauld laughed next to him, beer in hand as well. It was a rarity for the Crusader to drink, and when he did it was nowhere near what Dismas managed to throw back. But he liked it when Reynauld drank with him. There was a heady camaraderie between them when he did, his smiles came easier and his words weren’t as guarded.

“I thought we had them for sure with how quick your recovery was.” 

_Heh_. Flattery. Dismas smiled back at him, taking the compliment smugly. “Yeah, well, spilling that guy’s beer was brilliant on your part. These stingy bastards were watching me like a hawk, though. They’ve had it out for me all week.”

There was froth on Reynauld’s mustache, and Dismas looked away from it. “I could talk to the Heir, see if he could pull some strings.”

Dismas snorted into his glass mug. “Bet that kid doesn’t even know how to play.”

“Neither do I, actually.”

He said it casually like it was perfectly fine to have never played poker before, to have never felt the thrill of winning and the flow of gold. Dismas looked up from his drink. “You’ve never played? Not once?”

Reynauld chuckled that dark, honeyed sound. “It’s against the scriptures.” 

“Shame,” Dismas cleared his throat. “It figures. They always ban the fun stuff.” He sighed and chugged his drink, mourning the loss of the cards and the winnings. “It’s not like it matters anyway, since I’m banned now. Feh.”

“You could always play with me.” Dismas choked on his beer and felt froth in his nose at the Crusader’s innocuous words. _Fuck_ \-- clearly it was high time he found a lass to cure him of this mood if he were jumping at shadows like this. Chomping at the bit, frothing at the mouth. He watched Reynauld wipe the foam from his facial hair with a gloved hand and then smiled at Dismas. “I’m a pretty quick study.”

“I thought it was against the scriptures?” 

Reynauld shrugged and took another drink, then simply said, “Moderation.”

Dismas raised his eyebrows at that and stared at the other man. As per usual, he couldn’t get a read on the Crusader to save his life, so he sat there floundering and grasping for words and wondering if his sex-deprived brain was reading between the lines. Did the church even allow for innuendos? Probably not. Eventually, he just looked away and said, “You’d better not steal the pot if I teach you.” 

“I make no promises.”

…

They were a few drinks in when Dismas eventually had to admit that, yeah okay, maybe he didn’t know _exactly_ what all the rules were to the variety of card games they played. But that didn’t matter, he explained. What mattered was being able to understand _people_ , being able to predict their moves and influence the way they perceived the obvious. To change how they played the game.

“You see,” Dismas slurred only slightly. “If someone _believes_ they’re wide open, of course they’re going to go for the win. Kind of like with our sparring match a few days ago. So you have to make them think they have a chance, in order to goad them into making a move. It's a simple fact.” 

Reynauld had a crooked smile on his face, silly and sloppy but just as sexy. “What if you’re betting against someone who likes to play things safe?”

Dismas scoffed and gestured around them. “You think anyone here is gonna go the safe route? This isn’t the training field, this is my domain now. We’re here to waste riches, not time.” It was very poetic of him, if he did say so himself, and grabbed another used bar napkin to write on later. Later, when the hangover and boredom and maybe a bit of loneliness hit him. “So what you have to do is develop a tell. A real one, then a fake one.”

“This is starting to sound like con-artistry.” 

“That’s because it is,” Dismas grinned a devilish smile. “It’s a game of confidence and bravado and maybe a little vanity.” 

Reynauld rubbed his chin. He had taken his gloves off to better hold the cards with and Dismas tried not to look at them every few minutes, tried not to commit them to memory for later. Later, when the hangover and boredom and loneliness couldn’t be resolved with poetry alone. “This doesn’t sound like something the saints would approve of.”

Dismas rolled his eyes and downed the rest of his beer. They were on their fourth or fifth round, so he ordered another one to be sure. Five, maybe six, beers was a good stopping point, right? “What have the saints ever done for me, anyway?” Dismas placed his mug back down with a hard clink. They continued their game and when their next round of beers came sliding down to them, cold and sloshing, Dismas deemed Reynauld ready for a real match. 

“Wanna make things interesting?” 

He pulled out his lucky coin, his second most valuable trinket, and placed it on the bar top between them. A wager -- a friendly one, of course. Reynauld looked to him, eyes glinting like metal, then reached into his hauberk and pulled out a small piece of cloth. It was wrapped up and slightly frayed, and when unraveled was in the shape of a shield with two swords intersecting on top of a black and yellow insignia. 

“My knight’s crest,” Reynauld said wistfully, an absent smile on his lips and distant gaze in his downcast eyes. He ran his thumb over the patch, like it looked as if he had done thousands of times. 

_Well shit_. There goes his plan to cheat through this match. Dismas raised his eyebrows and looked up at him over his cowl. “You sure?”

Reynauld nodded and placed it atop of Dismas’ lucky coin on the bar top. “The thing is ancient. It was bestowed to me many years ago, before I even joined the crusades.” Well, that sure _sounded_ important; Dismas wasn’t convinced and Reynauld laughed at that. “It’s an old trinket, is all. The less I have of my past, the better.”

Reluctantly, Dismas dealt the hand. The game was over quickly, in Dismas’ favor of course, so he called for a best two out of three. Reynauld won the next one, and the highwayman very seriously considered throwing the game and returning the crest to him. 

But no. Reynauld lost the match, happily, and ordered them another round of beers, like a great weight had been lifted from him. 

Dismas was happy to take it from him, in that case. His smiles came freely, a drunken flush on his face, a deep honeysuckle laugh shaking his shoulders, and Dismas would do anything the other man wanted of him in that happy, drunken moment. Eventually, one of them wisened up when they saw exactly how late it was. It probably wasn’t Dismas -- he didn’t want the night to end. 

...

When they stumbled upstairs, happy and sleepy and drunk, Dismas mumbled, “I can’t believe I didn’t cheat you.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t steal from you,” Reynauld hummed back with a smile.

It felt important. Like some mutual acknowledgement, some boundary being drawn. Maybe. Dismas was drunk and sleepy and happy and enveloped in the larger man, so he wasn’t sure of anything at the moment. He preferred that.

“You can have it back,” he slurred. 

He had tucked the man’s precious trinket into his inner shirt pocket, along with his lucky coin, for safekeeping. “Keep it. You earned it.” He felt Reynauld shake his head, felt his scruffy beard grazing his cheek. He liked it. “I’m really terrible at cards, aren’t I?”

Dismas snorted out a laugh as they unlocked his door. “It takes practice. You just have to read people.”

“You’re hard to read, Dismas.”

A hiccup. He swallowed, thickly. _Was_ he that hard to read? Dismas certainly didn’t think so -- he had pretty simple needs, as far as he was concerned. Dismas just laughed again and said, “Not as hard as you are. A kleptomaniac Crusader with a past he’s avoiding, a Light-lover who sins in _‘moderation’_. Who looks down on the likes of me while helping me to bed.”

"I don't -- " They fell. It might have been Dismas, dragging him down, stumbling over his own feet as he tried to kick off his boots. It might have been him, so fucking drunk and desperate to be touched that he fell backwards to the floor. He might have been aiming for the bed, but they wound up on the ground instead and Dismas banged the back of his head on the hardwood floor. Seemed appropriate. 

" _Shit._ "

Reynauld propped himself up, not touching any part of the highwayman, and looked down in concern. "Are you okay?"

 _Other than a bruised ego?_ "Yeah, fine."

The Crusader sat all the way up and Dismas drank in the sight of him, shameless. He knew he was going to regret this in the morning, knew he would hate himself and not want to face Reynauld _again_. But right now, he didn't worry about tomorrow. Dismas felt… cared for. He could pay all the brothel girls he wanted and still not be helped to bed. It was nice. 

Which would all change if he didn't stop trying to put the very-shitty, drunk-clumsy moves on the other man, but that was for future Dismas to worry about. Right now, Reynauld was flushed bright red, from drink or who knows what, sat up on top of Dismas, almost touching, almost giving him everything he needed. They could go back to being strange, sometimes-allies but usually-assholes after Dismas got his fill, after he could go back to being human and able to focus. Able to think straight, to breathe right. Reynauld’s face was all blue-eyed concern and parted lips above him.

Dismas let out a frustrated sigh and titled his head back, against the floor, tearing the other man from his vision. This was wrong. More than wrong, it was fucked up. Reynauld was a _Crusader_ , this would never happen under normal circumstances and clearly Dismas was just taking advantage of a drunken situation. 

"You should probably go."

He hated being respectable, but Reynauld deserved at least that much. He covered his face with his arm so he wasn’t as tempted to look up, to change his mind and tell Reynauld whatever he needed to hear to remove his armor. 

The other man finally spoke, voice guarded. Again. _Shit_. “Let’s get you in bed first.”

Dismas shook his head, still covering his warm face. The last thing he wanted was for Reynauld to feel some kind of accountability in this, some duty-driven obligation to care for him. It made Dismas’ skin crawl to think of the Crusader being obligated to do anything for him in this state. “Nah, just leave me here. I’m still waiting for the floor to swallow me up.”

The other man didn’t laugh, like Dismas wanted him to, like he might have under other circumstances. Instead, he grabbed Dismas by the neckerchief and forced him into a sitting position. 

“I wasn’t asking.”

Good _gods_ , Dismas hated the way that went straight to his core and tore hot shivers down his body. He felt Reynauld’s hands slip under his arms as he hoisted him up, strong and steady, careful of Dismas' tender Shambler scars. Whatever Dismas had done to deserve this kindness, it was probably a mistake or a lie or something else fucked up on his part. Something to pull the wool over Reynauld’s eyes, poor guy. He tried to apologize, for nothing and for everything, but the Crusader plopped him down on the bed heavily. He felt the springs jolt under him, uncomfortable, but his head blessedly hit a pillow this time instead of something more fitting for him -- like hardwood. Or cobblestones or bricks. 

"Reynauld -- "

"Thank you, Dismas," he turned a small smile down at him. "For tonight."

Dismas sat up on his elbows, his temper coming to life and clearing his vision some. "I told you to stop thanking me! I haven't… There’s nothing to thank me for."

"I know you think so," Reynauld's bare hand came up, pressed to his chest, and gently but firmly pushed him back down to the mattress. Dismas' ears flushed and his skin tingled so pleasantly. He was desperate and drunk and pathetic and looking up to Reynauld's blessed smile like it was everything he ever wanted. "But I don't see it that way."

"How?" bit out Dismas, who then closed his eyes and turned away, embarrassed. "How do you always do this?"

"Do what?"

"Make me so damn _hopeful_." He wouldn't look at him. He didn’t want to see what Reynauld was thinking and wished he could just shut himself up. "Make me feel like things aren't so terrible -- like _I'm_ not."

Reynauld chuckled. “A little hope, no matter how desperate, is never without worth.”

He said his goodnights and farewells and sleep tights and left. Left Dismas alone to ponder his cryptic words and his actions. Left Dismas alone to undo his pants and remember the night how he pleased. Left him alone in the dark feeling guilty afterwards of how he had just used the other man’s kindness to pleasure himself. Dismas couldn’t deny how hopeful Reynauld made him feel both on and off the battlefield, and hated how he twisted it into something more.

He made himself sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every chapter I write, I'm so excited to show it to you guys when I finish. Then I go to post it, and second guess every word lol. 
> 
> Next chapter has some action, but maybe not the kind you have in mind. Yikes.


	10. Rituals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you guys manage to write smut without screaming into your fists the whole time? This isn't even that smutty.

**10\. Rituals**

When Dismas awoke, it was the first time in weeks that he had missed his morning run, missed breakfast with Junia, missed his afternoon coffee with Paracelsus. Missed seeing Reynauld at the guild. He had drunk just enough to make a fool of himself and ruin his morning rituals, but not enough to have forgotten the compromising position he put himself and the Crusader into the night before. His mood was sour, he was hungover, and he was hard as _hell_. 

_Time to find some stress relief._

After a quick rinse, he went straight to the pleasure halls, no distractions, no second thoughts. He needed the Crusader out of his system as soon as possible, or else risk whatever comfortable, fragile companionship they currently had. 

The brothel was actually beneath the tavern, tucked in a far corner and down a spiral stairway that led to a decadent chamber of lush pillows and long couches. Drapes and filigree decorated the warm chamber and naked women lounged in various places, bodies damp and enticing. Dismas could hear loud moans and skin on skin throughout the various side corridors as he walked -- which is why he always preferred to take the girls back to his room. He stood there, out of place, until a well-dressed woman in expensive finery approached him.

Madam Latch, as in Latch and Key he'd been told, approached him with a stunning smile. She owned the brothel here, along with all the women and men and seemed to treat them well enough and enforced decent enough hygiene; Dismas had met plenty of madams who treated their service workers like reeking livestock, so this was a nice change.

"Sir Dismas! What an absolute pleasure to see you again," she crooned.

The other women around them giggled and blushed like they were supposed to. Dismas had always hated being called "sir" or "master" or any other obviously fake connotation, but Madam Latch seemed to enjoy the way it made him huff. 

"I was afraid you had up and left us without saying goodbye. Isn't that right, girls?" They all giggled or pouted or purred as if on cue, and Dismas shifted uncomfortably. 

"Just been a bit…" he searched for the right word, then shrugged. "Distracted lately."

Madam Latch smiled her bright, lipstick red smile at him and said, "Hear that, girls? Sounds like you have competition." More giggles, more crooning. "So who can I interest you in today? Moira? Or perhaps Lynette? You seemed to be fond of Nadine last time." She gestured from her smile to each woman in question, as if she were selling a product. Which, technically she was. 

Dismas shook his head, ducked behind his cowl as he said, "I was actually interested in seeing your available men."

Her smile faltered, just for a moment, before she plastered it back on charmingly. "Of course, my dear. I currently have quite a variety, from thin to muscular, exotic or plain. If you'll follow me, I would be happy to show you."

They walked down a long hallway until she led him to the men's dormitory. Already, the smell was different from the woman's -- less sugary and floral and more spiced, oak and cedar. Tobacco. The Madam pulled back the curtain to a much darker room, slightly smokey without the large vases of bouquets and lace and filigree decorating every inch. There were still long couches and plush pillows and thick, luxurious carpets, but on them were men of varying body types and skin color and clothing. Dismas was glad that the room was dark enough to hide his flush as Madam Latch snapped her fingers.

The men all lined up at once and eyed Dismas, up and down, and he tried not to turn tail and run. 

What the fuck was he doing down here? He had never paid for sex with a man before -- who in their right mind would, when there were plenty of voluptous, buxom young women just a hallway away? Dismas swallowed thickly as he stared down the line of men. They didn't laugh coyly or twist their hair or wiggle their fingers at him. Many of them smiled at him, though some were friendly, others predatory. 

"As I said, I have quite the selection for you, Sir Dismas," she fanned herself and walked down the line. "Is there anything in particular you were looking for?"

_Yes._ But how in the hell was he supposed to tell her "yeah, I'd like your most religious blue-eyed zealot to tell me how much he hates me while he shags me from behind"? Dismas shifted uncomfortably, again, and simply said, "Someone with a beard, preferably." His voice sounded nervous to his own ears and he frowned at that. This was just to get whatever strange attraction he had out of his system, nothing to be so on edge about. 

Madam Latch snapped her fingers again and some of the men stepped forward, out of line, all with beards.

Dismas looked at each of them while the Madam smiled to him encouragingly. As if this were nothing out of the ordinary. Honestly, this felt so different than the other dorms, where women would flock to him and he would just select the most handsy; the men here seemed more like soldiers than brothel workers. His eyes scoured the bodies until they landed on one man in particular -- broad body, brown hair, thick beard. He was short -- no taller than Dismas was, anyway -- plus his eyes were slightly too close together, a dirty brown like Dismas' own and not the piercing blue he had been hoping for, but he would do. Mostly, he just wanted to leave with him and get this over with.

"Him," Dismas nodded. The man smiled charmingly at him and stepped forward, smelling of musk and heady rubbing oil. 

He paid his deposit to Madam Latch, since Dismas preferred the quiet sanctity of his own room, and waited for the man to dress himself before they headed out together. It was still early afternoon, so the bar side of the tavern was relatively empty, save for the crazed Caretaker who raised his glass to him as they passed. 

A blush crept up his neck, to his ears and face -- he hadn't even considered getting caught by someone. Luckily, _Reynauld_ usually spent his afternoons training with the guild or praying at the abbey. That might've been why Dismas had decided to do this now, instead of late into the evening like he had done in the past. Not that it really mattered, at this point, when his dreams were heavily plagued by the other man. He just wanted to unwind. 

"I haven't seen you around before," the other man spoke. His voice was jarringly soft and sweet, not shrill exactly, but definitely not the low rumble he wanted in his ear as he came. "Are you new in town, messire?"

"No," Dismas responded gruffly. He wasn't being a very good 'sir', but he didn't care. "I just don't normally go to your side, is all. And don't call me that."

"Then what should I call you?" His high-pitched voice was fun and flirty like he was paid to be. 

"Dismas," he grunted. 

They made it to his room without any further run-ins, thank the gods, and the brothel worker walked in and looked around. It was a mess of his few clothes and trinkets and weapons, napkin-poems on the floor and the shower basin still unemptied. Dismas knew he'd want to rinse off again _after_ the deed was done. 

The man looked to him with a smile and started taking off his shirt, and suddenly Dismas' anxiety shot up. He felt nervous, watching the man undress, wondering what he had gotten himself into. It was ridiculous -- he felt like some blushing virgin and Dismas was far from that, but he couldn't move a muscle as the worker slowly stripped down to his undershorts, as if putting on a show for him. He seemed to notice Dismas' jittery, panicked mood and stepped closer, voice soft and soothing and very much not Reynauld’s. 

"We can do whatever you want," he whispered with a smile. "I like it either way."

_Gods._ Dismas was totally out of his depth here. As a brigand, they waited until they were generally blackout-drunk, then whomever was lower in rank would be the one bent over. That was usually Dismas, in his case. With this soft-spoken man here in front of him, teasing his fingers up Dismas' buttoned shirt and into his hair, giving him some kind of say in the matter… 

He said the only thing that came to his blank, panicked mind. "I want you to fuck me."

The man smiled and suddenly seemed to flip a switch. He grabbed Dismas by the front of his shirt and slammed him back into the door, hard, then slid his knee up the fork of Dismas' legs. Dismas breathed out in surprise, cock twitching to life as the man yanked off his neckerchief and latched onto his neck with a wet tongue. He could feel the man’s scruffy beard, cut shorter than Reynauld's but still thick and full and scratching against his skin. It made him moan.

He felt those deft fingers working at his shirt, unbuttoning it one by one until he slid his hands beneath. Dismas' skin was on fire, desperate and needy and wanting to be touched and licked and fucked, but the sex worker's hand yanked at the cloth, trying to rip it off his body, and grazed the scarred, sensitive flesh on his right arm. 

Dismas hissed out and drew back, putting his good arm up between them on instinct. The man backed off immediately, eyes wide. 

"Sorry," Dismas muttered. He wasn't sure if he _should_ be sorry, but he found he really didn't want the other man to see the vile, marred skin hidden beneath the thin cloth so he readjusted and said, "Shirt stays on."

He nodded in return, practiced smile glued back to his face, and gushed, "All I need are your pants off, gorgeous."

_By the fucking Light._ Did people really enjoy being talked to like that? Dismas walked back up to him, shirt unbuttoned, glaring, undoing his belt. He ripped the belt free with a satisfying _swish_ and tossed it to the floor, clattering loudly against the hardwood. The man looked him up and down, flatteringly, and Dismas rolled his eyes. It's not like a few weeks of working out and eating real food had made any huge improvements to his body, so he knew the look was just for show. _Whatever._

With a growl, Dismas surged forward, hands on the stranger's broad shoulders, nosing up his stubble to lick at the soft shell of his ear. His hands explored the shaved chest, too small and too smooth, and tweaked at a nipple roughly. The brothel man groaned under his touch and wrapped his arms around Dismas' waist, pulling him closer. Dismas stilled at the intimate gesture and the other man whined. 

"Why'd you stop, love?"

_That voice._ There was no way he could go through with this, hearing that soft teasing voice call him things like _'love'_ and _'gorgeous'_ and _'sir'_. Dismas bit his fleshy earlobe and growled, "Stop talking." It was a demand he felt slightly bad for, but he had a fantasy to live out. Maybe if his voice were deeper and called him things like _'lowly thief'_ or _'highway filth'_... Maybe if it made Dismas' mind cloud with smoke and sweets when he said things like _'I know together we can rid this Hamlet of these nightmarish creatures'_.

Dismas fell back into it, touching and licking and biting, which quickly turned into grinding and gasping. The brothel man helped him shimmy out of his pants and grabbed at his groin, making Dismas tilt his head back with a moan. 

"You have any tallow?" he cooed in his ear. Dismas nodded and reached across the bed, inside the nightstand. As he dug around in the drawer, the other man placed himself directly behind Dismas and he felt hips rubbing against his bent over ass. _Fuck._ Swallowing hard, he started to feel that same nervous panic setting in as the brothel man ground against him, still in his undershorts but clearly ready to go. At least from this angle, Dismas couldn't see him. At least from this angle, he could pretend the brothel man were someone else, someone with blue eyes and thicker arms. Someone who carried him to bed the same way he carried him to safety, if he just kept his face in the pillow. The Crusader's crest felt… heavier in his inner shirt pocket. More noticeable from this angle, pressed into his stomach. He didn’t like it.

The man was running his hand down the curve of Dismas' backside and with a dainty, smug voice, leaned over and said "I'll be the best fuck you've ever had, my prince."

_Nope._ No way in hell was Dismas about to get taken from behind by someone who called him _'my prince'._ His fantasy disappeared, as did his libido, and he quickly propped himself up. "Stop." He was probably a little more forceful than he needed to be, but still breathed out a sigh of relief when he felt the hands leave him. A part of him had been scared that the brothel man _wouldn't_ stop if he asked him to. Unfortunately, that tended to happen within the brigand lifestyle, too.

"Did I… do something wrong, Dismas?" The man sounded almost forlorn, and Dismas felt his face burning red hot with embarrassment. He was being ridiculous -- this is exactly what he had wanted, exactly what he had paid for, so why couldn't he go through with it?

"No," said Dismas, again, too forcefully, frustrated. "It's not -- it's _me_."

He ran his hands through his short black hair, frustrated; if he didn't do this now, he'd mess things up with Reynauld. Probably the next time he saw him, with his luck. He owed it to the Crusader to get this over with, then finally go back to preferring soft, giggling women over strong hands and facial hair and stout brawn.

The man next to him kindly offered him a backrub, a blow job, anything to get Dismas back in the mood, but he shook his head sourly and opted to just take a quick rinse off. The man watched him as he bathed -- which was more awkward than Dismas cared for -- then redressed himself. He made sure to keep his right arm out of view the best he could.

"You're still gonna pay me for the full day, right, sweetheart?" he asked with his boyish voice. 

Dismas gave him an unimpressed look over his red cowl, then dug in his belongings and tossed a large majority of his remaining gold at him. The man caught the pouch and smiled sweetly at him. "A true gentleman, Dismas."

"Get out of my bed," he responded flatly. 

The man stood up and Dismas led him to the door. He didn't really have any plans today outside of getting laid -- which was an absolute failure on his part -- except for maybe finding a late lunch. He wondered what the others were up to. What Reynauld was up to. 

They stepped out into the hallway together and Dismas turned to close the door --

Then froze. 

Coming up the stairs was… of course. Reynauld. Because the universe just _loved_ to see Dismas suffer.

The Crusader stopped when he saw the two of them, Dismas and -- whatever his name was. Dismas wasn't sure he ever asked. He turned around to look at the brothel man, at the painfully obvious similarities, then turned back to Reynauld who was still just standing there in shock. 

_Shit._

Dismas regained his composure quickly, furrowing his brow and ducking behind his cowl, cheeks red. He finished locking his door, then faced the Crusader.

"Need something?"

He watched Reynauld shuffle his feet, but with his bascinet on, Dismas couldn't try to glean his mood, his reaction. He already knew anyway, he was pretty sure. All members of the clergy looked upon two men being together with disgust. Dismas squared his shoulders, lifted his chin defiantly, gave him a _'make your jokes, I fucking dare you'_ look. He was a master at that look. 

Reynauld cleared his throat. "Paracelsus sent for us. Her contact has arrived."

~~~~~

If there was one thing Dismas failed at being a thief in, it was knowing when to be quiet. In the forest, at the bar, in bed. In fact, the brigands would usually leave him up to watch through the nights himself, since Dismas could wake the entire camp, if he chose to, for better or for worse.

The two walked to the clinic in painfully awkward silence; Dismas wasn't sure what to say to help the mood, but he needed to say something. 

_'Sorry you had to see that, I thought you were at church'._

Nope.

_'Hey, don't knock it til you try it, sometimes an ass-fucking is exactly what a man needs'._

Definitely not.

_'It was just a coincidence that he resembled you, and absolutely not because I specifically requested those looks.'_

"So…" he started. "Nice day out."

Reynauld nodded.

Well that had been a terrible approach; maybe asking a question was a better one. "Seems like fall is upon us. You like the fall?"

No, too open ended. Reynauld just shrugged, so Dismas tried again.

"How did training go?"

"It was peaceful."

_Shit._ He didn't know what to do to relieve the tension, other than to apologize a few times. A few dozen times, maybe. But he wouldn't do that, why should he? Dismas wasn't breaking any laws, for once. But he wanted things smoothed out with Reynauld before they had to go back out into the pit together. 

"Listen, about earlier…" That caught Reynauld’s attention. They stopped together, out in the middle of the road, and turned to face each other. Dismas forced himself to look at Reynauld, despite his face feeling beet red, despite looking at a blank tin can of a helmet. "That was -- We didn't -- I mean, can we still be… okay, Reynauld?"

The other man nodded his head, but with his face hidden, Dismas really wasn't sure if that was the end of things. His gut still twisted with embarrassment. 

When they finally reached the clinic, Junia was sitting on the few steps leading up, looking sullen. Her holy Vestal book was open on her lap and she appeared to be writing something frantically within. They approached her and she slammed it shut, then pouted up to them. "The Occultist is here. He took the Necromancer’s head for his accursed ritual. Light be good, but I don't quite like him. This whole thing feels… evil."

“Yeah, it does.” Dismas looked up to the clinic where Paracelsus and this strange Occultist were inside. "Wanna go watch?"

She shook her head. "I’ve been prohibited from being a part of this."

"That’s unfortunate. We’ll let you know how it goes," Reynauld spoke. He seemed quick to ascend the steps. Dismas followed suit, letting their young priestess sit on the steps to ponder her religious life choices, when she called out to him. 

"Surely you've been prohibited by the clergy as well, Reynauld!"

He shrugged, not bothering to stop or slow down as he pushed into the old clinic and left her to the steps. Dismas followed close behind, eager to see whatever this Occultist brought to the table. "That is certainly news to me. You keep watch out here, sister Junia."

They walked to the basement, where Paracelsus' personal labs were, and came face to face with the very Occultist that the Plague Doctor had been so excited for them to meet. He was a tall man in lush, silken scholarly robes, far better suited to the library than the harsh realities of adventuring. His face was gaunt and serious with dark brown skin and thick facial hair, not an ounce of humor anywhere to be found. His eyes nearly resembled black beads, staring out from beneath full bushy eyebrows. Atop his head was a white cloth wrapped up in a turban and in his hand -- Dismas raised his eyebrows -- was the polished white skull of a dead man.

"I'm thrilled you both were able to make it," Paracelsus piped up. "This is the infamous professor and occultist, Alhazred."

The man bowed to them, just slightly, which was a strange thing to Dismas. It was far more formal and respectful than anything they did on this side of the desert. Still, he saw Reynauld mimicking the movement to his side and gave a stiff nod himself. 

"Hello, Sir Alhazred," said Reynauld. "We find ourselves in trying times, currently. We appreciate you being here."

_Suck up._ The man, Alhazred, gave a hollow chuckle and spoke with a heavily accented voice. "Please, good knight, the only reason I have come to his Hamlet is to formally examine these 'trying times', as you say. It is a pleasure to partake, as well as for my own studies into the void."

"So?" Dismas leaned against a table. "Are we haunted or what?"

"Clearly," the man smiled beneath his thick mustache. "I'm here to find out exactly what you are haunted _by_. If we could please cut the lights, I would be happy to begin." Wow, he was no nonsense, all business. Paracelsus did as he asked until they were shrouded in darkness, too far underground for any light to reach them. Dismas could feel Reynauld tense beside him, and Dismas couldn't help but hold his breath as well. 

Alhazred lit a match and everything sparked back into life, albeit with a red hue. He carefully brought the flame to a candle that he propped atop the skull, then waved out the match with a smokey wisp. An unpleasant… stench filled the air around them, like Alhazred had steeped some herbs within the candle, and it gave Dismas a heady, dampened feeling somehow. Before him, Alhazred grabbed the lit skull in the palm of his hand, raising it above all of their heads and distorting the shapes within the room. 

" _SARTHOR'GOR AN PHIROAH_ ," the man shouted to the black beyond. His voice rang out, harsh and strange. Unfamiliar. Dismas spoke other languages, had read poems and literature from all corners of the earth, but he had never once heard words spoken like this. Commanding, wicked, slithering from his mouth like Eldritch creations themselves. It unsettled him horribly, and he almost envied Junia sitting outside, oblivious. " _MARASTH LIKA'LAH BOH'NROTH_."

The light flared and cast blooming black shapes on the walls -- shadows? Shadows that seemed to twist and writhe, that seemed to take form and gain… substance. Thick, fleshy substance that flailed and coiled, one over another, slithering in and out from each other. They were… tentacles. More damnable, worm-like appendages, crawling from the shadows. 

Whatever fetid, virulent magic that female cultist acolyte commanded back in the ruins, Alhazred seemed to have that same ability. 

The Eldritch shadows sprung forth and seemed to envelop the strange Occultist who opened his body to it, long robes and sleeves rustling, to the insidious power before them. When he spoke those awful, snaking words once more, his voice had changed, thickened or perhaps seemed layered, almost. Layered by something deep and guttural, inhuman. Evil. " **1 _AM'YOGHN KTAH MYEP NGORHEM. NYARLATHOTEP FOGRAAHG_**." 

Alhazred opened his eyes, sudden and arresting, and Dismas heard a sharp gasp somewhere in the dark. Perhaps his own. The man’s eyes had been clouded to black orbs, opaque and obscured by something sinister, save for a single red prick of light in the center of each.

Goosebumps dotted Dismas’ skin and he felt ill with some blanketing… presence, thrashing and coiling around Alhazred. The words flowed together and Dismas couldn't even begin to understand what was happening. Loose items from shelves and cubbies flung around them and Dismas felt Reynauld back up closer, into him, and crossed the holy symbol at his chest. They stood back to back, watching the blacks and the purples and the reds fly about, beautiful if not for the dread that pierced like an iron bullet in Dismas' stomach. The Crusader's back at his, pressed close, made him feel better about his own fear caught in his throat. 

They watched in silence with heavy breaths and racing hearts, as the Occultist slowly lowered his arm, casting the lit skull down onto the table and before the dank, death-soaked cloth beriddled head. 

A sudden flame, bright and bizarre, enveloped the blackness, the drenched robe and rotted head within, turning it all to a searing red. The cloth burned away almost immediately, leaving the decayed Necromancer on display with eyes liquifying out its sockets, blackened tongue melting away as its jaw opened wide and it _screamed_.

Slowly, the shrill ringing turned to… words, vile and threatening and echoing in the room, in their minds. “ _You still foolishly consider yourselves separate from the whole? I know better_.” It hissed out in its semi-human voice, skin crisping black like mottled scabs, what was left of its ears dripping a red ichor. “ _And I. Will. SHOW YOU._ ” Dismas grabbed for his gun the moment he felt Reynauld grab for his longsword, both of them ready to act, both of them scarred in more ways than one from the memories of the Shambler. Suddenly, a heavy darkness overpowered them like a physical force, black and suffocating and exactly like the moment before death itself stared them in the eyes back on the Old Road.

Dismas couldn’t breathe. The fear caught his breath in his throat and he couldn’t get it out, couldn’t push it past the sheer horror that overcame him. Whatever this ritual was, it would drive them all mad, drive them into the writhing limbs and gaping maw of the Shambler. He heard someone cry out -- Paracelsus? 

Tiny lights pricked into his vision, one by one, until they all widened at once like diamonds, glaring eyes glistening like rubies, bloody and red and all turned on him with palpable hate. He tried to shout for help, for Reynauld, for anything, but he was entranced by the devil before him, lost to the blackness and despair once more and certain of his own demise. For the second time in his pitiful life, Dismas felt death reaching from the void for him, reaching with feelers and barbed appendages and a wretched grin, breathing in his fear and anguish like a lifesource. It pressed death and madness into his mind with such a brute force that he nearly bowed to it. It was the Shambler, but it wasn’t. It was far bigger, far more monstrous and impossibly odious, dragging him to the void. 

“Unholy foulness!” came that blessed, familiar voice that Dismas clung to, blindly, mentally and emotionally and physically if he could just remember how to move his body. “Begone!”

There was a rumble that penetrated them all. Reynauld’s valor and courage, mocking him. Laughter, perhaps. “ _The abyss returns even the most boldest of gazes_.”

Then came Alhazred’s voice, still inhuman but banishing the giant Eldritch eyes peering upon them with scorn and rancor, pushing them back to the void as if he were moving the impossible. He said a few more blasphemous words of power with the warbling deepness in his voice, unlike anything that Dismas had heard before, and the room slowly stilled. 

Books and trinkets fell to the ground and the candle flame atop the skull shrank back to a respectable size instead of the inferno it had been just moments ago. As quickly as it had seared to life, the Necromancer’s head now sat on the table as a charred lump, the table beneath it blistered black. The room settled back to a darkness, one Dismas was far less comfortable in after having seen the tentacles squirming beneath the walls and eyes cutting open in the black beyond. 

Reynauld didn't move from his side. They each had a hand on their weapons as Alhazred regained his composure and sat up, eyes thankfully back to normal in the dimness. He adjusted his robes, thumbed his mustache, and took a deep breath.

His voice was human, accented, ordinary again, but his words were grave. 

“I have some bad news.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've always hated the brothel worker trope, but somehow it really fits Dismas. Next chapter will be one from Reynauld's POV that I just wrote yesterday, because it feels like high time we get some of his insight. Real excited for that, and since I'm so nervous about this chapter, I'll probably post the next one in a few days to move on haha.
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, does this wine bottle look like Dismas or WHAT? It's my official "What have you done now, Dismas?" wine
> 
> https://bit.ly/3i1Vxcw


	11. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been reeeeaal excited for this chapter. 
> 
> I scream, you scream, we all scream for sexual repression.

**11\. Control**

Reynauld was oblivious. 

Or so he’d always been told anyway. For his whole life, he had been chided by others for being heedless, blind to the hidden motives and ambitions of those around him. For seeing the good in some when there supposedly wasn't any to be found, or so he was frequently scolded. From the time he was a boy getting caught sneaking stale bread to the homeless heathens left to rot in the snow, to the final time he hesitated to slay an adversary in the Crusades who was just some withered old man, barely able to lift his sword to defend himself. 

Each occasion, he stopped, hesitated, questioned his superiors and thus questioned the teachings. And on each occasion, he learned the hard way the punishment that beget straying from the holy Light, learned the hard way what his hasty actions and bleeding heart earned him. He quickly understood to do as he was told and to keep his sacrilegious questions far from his mind, and further from his lips.

It silenced the objections for fear of the whip and his father’s scathing anger, but it never entirely quelled the misgivings he had when he quickened his pace past the beggars and lepers on the streets to the abbey where he stayed as a child. It never entirely stifled the dissatisfaction he felt when he felled enemy after enemy as an adult, none able to speak a lick of his tongue but their fear and desperation spanning across the barrier of language, wet eyes and pleading hands. 

“It’s for the best,” his stern father, the old abbots, his tired comrades would tell him, time and time again when they saw that profane doubt in him. “We do what we must for the holy Light, and it’s the darkness in you that dulls your senses.”

...

Reynauld was oblivious, but he wasn't stupid. 

No, he had the sinful cunning and guile of a snake when bothered, much to the dismay of his holy fathers. They had tried to beat it out of him, tried to flay the liar's blood from his very veins as he wept for repentance, tried to cleanse his open wounds with holy water and soft prayers after rendering him raw to their Light. _His_ Light. He had learned to hide it away long ago, to keep to the holy path and never look to the sides of it for fear of straying too far from that unforgiving Light. The clever boy who saw what he shouldn't, who saw the good when he shouldn't and fooled and tricked and beguiled when he shouldn't, that boy had been hidden away long ago.

Until he met a certain highwayman, anyway.

Something about Dismas brought that out in him, revitalized the sly fox that he tried so hard not to be, for it was a sin to venture and scheme, away from the holy Light and its teachings. Reynauld had to meditate every morning and pray every night just to ensure that his inner demons and devils be kept at bay. Demons by the name of folly, temptation, and indulgence. 

Devils by the name of Dismas.

It was unexpected after their meeting and how standoffish the other man was at first, but it slowly evolved into something… comfortable. Relaxed and amusing. Both welcomed and welcoming. Dismas was strange, the way he would curse him one moment and dive in front of a blade for him the next. He was unpredictable, unguided by any stringent laws or personal codes, which was foreign to Reynauld who lived only by his teachings for so long, to kill and be killed for the Light as instructed. Frequently, the younger man seemed to surprise even himself, relying on his quick reflexes and instinct to have endured this far in life.

Living by intuition and luck alone, Dismas sneered at Reynauld's way of life, rejected the Eternal Flame and its Holy Light in favor of a sharp tongue and quick trigger finger. At first, it angered Reynauld, as if challenged by Dismas' Light-aversion, but the longer they battled together, side by side, life for a life, the more Reynauld came to respect the other man. Relied on him, even. Enjoyed him, eventually. During their many expeditions, Reyanuld caught himself staring at his open scriptures while they rested, words lost and unfocused as he listened to Dismas joke with their Plague Doctor and Vestal, his gallows humor condemned by the abbots but tempting a smile to Reynauld’s face all the same. 

The doctrines would shame him for his indulgence, surely, but Reynauld felt his stringent holy ward wane, crease under the aloof smirk of the highwayman. It was a sin, he knew, but his father was no longer around to whip him for the tiny glances, the wayward thoughts, the rushed prayers he whispered when he caught Dismas staring for too long. 

Dismas hated him, Reynauld knew he did, hated the very idea of Crusaders and holy warriors. Of their religious plight to better the world and cleanse it from falling to the ever growing darkness. He was paganistic, or at the very least areligious, and that alone should have pitted them against each other. And it had, at first. But when Reynauld had been taken by the Shambler's powerful appendage, dragging him like a ragdoll to his doom, helpless, Reynauld had thought that was it. He couldn't even manage to say a final prayer, the air getting crushed from his lungs and the fear blanking his mind, the highwayman and the young Heir's backs to him in retreat. That had been it, been the end.

But it wasn’t.

Out of the darkness, unexpected and surely Light-sent, Dismas grabbed him from the maw of death and hauled him back to safety. It had changed something between them, shifted their hate and distrust of one another to something even less understood, but mutually agreed upon, some unspoken reliance. Dismas hadn't let him die, and Reynauld wouldn't let him either. 

When the highwayman had asked him if he wanted a drink, after Dismas had yet again stepped in when Reynauld thought he wouldn’t -- against a nightmare Eldritch beast from the Weald -- the Crusader couldn’t deny him. He couldn’t deny him then, and he couldn’t deny him all the times thereafter when he asked him to look from the Light. “Scared to sin, Crusader?” Dismas had questioned. And he was. 

But he was excited as well. Shamefully so. 

These barbed words lined with smiles, implications, Light-less nuance pushed at all of Reynauld's well-buried buttons, but it wasn’t the first time Reynauld had felt such sinful, refreshing liberty from his stringent codes. 

No, the first time Reynauld had felt such happy abandon and impulsive joy, he had married her.

Hannah was all of the things Reynauld wasn't -- kind, loving, determined. Decisive. Resolved. She had known what she wanted from the moment he had met her, and they had eloped shortly after because of it. She was the Light in Reynauld's life, the joy when he felt nothing but despair to his sins, lost on the brink of the Flame and the Void. After his mother had passed, his father’s anger and virtue was all Reynauld had known for years and when he, too, inevitably fell to the grave, the relief Reynauld had felt brought only crushing guilt. 

But she had absolved him of that, had pulled him from the dark depths of trauma and quelled his distress, made him smile, laugh even. The fears and uncertainty that his father had instilled in him with palm and whip alike, his only inheritance from the holy man that weren’t permanently dug into his back but instead his mind, Hannah covered in kisses. She was warm and soft and patient when he wasn’t and had taught him to be a better man.

What Reynauld had once thought was the holy Light was merely his own cowardice. When he stole from the other acolytes, not even for his own want or need, but of nothing more than impulse, or when he had drank too deeply of the communion wine behind the abbot’s back and was caught when he went back for more. It had never been his love of the Light as much as it had been his fear of the flail, fear of his father’s harsh words and harsher punishments. When Reynauld had to kneel in rice or hold his arms in place for hours at a time, decorated with rosaries and smelling of incense, he counted his blessings that he hadn’t earned a night in the penance halls. 

The terrible flagellant quarters.

Reynauld remembered how they would run red with his sins while he wept for the Light and his father’s forgiveness.

His father always sang his praises after, ran his gnarled hands through Reynauld’s short-cropped hair, sprinkled prayers and holy water against his red-weeping back. All the while, Reynauld felt his anger growing, simmering and festering like an untreated boil, deep in his overwrought soul.

He had thought that anger long gone by the time Hannah gave birth to their firstborn son, their only child. It had been a treacherous birth, too soon and too bloody, and for that first night, they thought the babe lost to the Light. Reynauld remembered the anger then, the desperation, that fueled him to the Light’s bidding, whatever it asked of him, in exchange for the life of their child. They wept together, but in the end, the Light deemed Reynauld worthy of its blessing, and Isaac grew to be healthy and strong. He had his father’s notable jawline and his mother’s soft eyes, full of smiles and laughter, so different from his own when he was a child. It filled Reynauld with joy, watching the baby -- _his_ baby -- grow into a toddler. 

By the way he laughed, the way he oft-misspoke the verses and the way his back was clean of poorly healed scars, Reynauld knew that his father would be deeply disappointed. And shamefully, that made him smile. Isaac was healthy and happy, and Reynauld spoke the verses to him every eve before bed, then kissed his brow goodnight. 

And that was enough.

Things were peaceful for years. They didn’t have many means or ways of wealth, but Hannah and Isaac were content, and thus Reynauld was content. He eventually earned his knight’s crest and Hannah expressed her praise for him that night in their marital bed, hoping for another child, but none came.

Those were the end of his blessings before the Light called upon him, grave and final.

Hannah had so fiercely begged him to stay, he remembered, her lovely face contorted with grief and loss, though he hadn’t even left them yet. But she knew, far better than he did, apparently. She knew the weight that the Crusades would bear on Reynauld, knew the cost would be his very soul to deliver the holy word of the Light unto its enemies with his plate and sword and resolve.

Isaac was older than Reynauld was when he had his first communion, when he killed his first lamb, and when he had his first whipping. Reynauld pulled him close, hushed his sobs, ran his fingers through his hair the way his father had always done. 

There was no blood. There were no prayers, no tears from him even. Just unshakeable resolve.

He didn’t look back the day he left, the sun setting on his ancestral home while his wife and child wept at his departure. He had nothing left to say.

That had been a lifetime ago, it felt like. Reynauld held Hannah and Isaac in his heart, his memories, for decades. He was still married to the woman who made him laugh, who wept at his departure and shone at his return, until he wasn’t. He was married to her as the years passed, the Crusader slaughtering foe after foe, some with weapon in hand and some begging for surrender. He held the line, defended his fellow soldiers, he grew in ranks. His blood soaked armor, his grisly zweihander, his companions patting him on the back and blessing him at his most recent butchery.

In all of the death and madness, he was still married to her.

Until he wasn’t.

Reynauld soaked the earth with the blood of his enemies, dozens of them, young and old, armed or bare, all heathens and opponents to the Light. His father would be proud, he knew. His wife, his son, however -- he pushed them from his mind.

Kill after kill, he pushed them from his mind, further and further, grinning and laughing madly at his chance for another day yet lived at the cost of someone else’s.

Hannah would never look upon him with laughter in her eyes, not after his deeds. It was a fate worse than death to him, an inevitability after doing the Light’s dirty work for years. When Reynauld looked at his appearance the few times he had bothered, he didn’t recognize himself. He didn’t recognize the grey hairs flecked in his beard, didn’t recognize the long scar trailing down his cheek, didn’t recognize the blood that had somehow crept past his bascinet visor to paint his face. 

He _did_ recognize the emptiness in his eyes, gone with the light. 

They won. Blessed be, they managed to kill their way to victory over their enemies, the pagan states succumbing to the rule and order of the Light and Eternal Flame. Reynauld wasn’t sure what happened after that, too weary and too exhausted and too homesick. 

_Was_ he homesick?

Really, he was sickened at the thought of returning home, but had nowhere else to return to. He remembered the weeks that passed on horseback, brooding, fretful, contrite. He remembered seeing red on his hands, real or not, remembered the way they shook as they steered his mare towards his ancestral home, bloodsoaked and tainted. Would Hannah see it? Would Isaac?

He was scared. Scared, ashamed, guilty. Hannah would see right through him, see the hollow eyes barely masking the numerous deaths at his hands, see the bloodlust, the disgraceful way he _longed_ for more. Longed for the violence, longed for the fear and desperation that he knew from his father, knew from the penance halls, knew from his very mind. How could he hold her now, when his hands itched for his sword, itched for the screams and pleas of his enemies that signified an easy victory? That signified his own life, secured and triumphed over his foes? 

Reynauld had earned another day, or so his allies told him with the same, hollow looks. Distant. Lightless. He had fought and won and promised himself another day.

But for what?

It gave his pathetic life meaning, more so than his wife and son ever did, and the realization shamed him. It brought tears to his eyes. Not the deaths of child-soldiers, no older than Isaac and outfitted with farmer’s tools and burlap sacks, sent to throw themselves at the holy onslaught like their lives ever meant anything. Like they had a chance at stopping the war, hallowed that it may be. The Crusaders were too-well trained, too-well equipped, too _fearful_ to be bested by half-starved children with knives and pitchforks. 

They won the day, the year, after nearly a decade of winning. There was no question that they ever wouldn’t.

His tired horse pulled up to the peak of a hill, _the_ hill. _His_ hill, that overlooked their meager acre and ancestral home dotted with crops and apple trees. Smoke billowed from the chimney and chickens could be heard behind the house. How long had it been? He saw them, then. Peering from the window, running out to meet him, all tears and disbelief. Reynauld had never even wrote to them, not once. He couldn’t bring himself to. 

Wind parted Hannah’s hair beautifully, soft and dark and far longer than he had ever seen it, the same wind that ruffled the holy cross on his cloth tabard. A boy ran with her, _his_ boy. Isaac, tall and lanky and unfamiliar, now a youth in his adolescence. 

He heard Hannah call his name with shock and happiness, and it brought stinging tears to his eyes. She didn’t know who she called out to anymore, didn’t know the new scars beneath his armor, the barbarity that clenched his fists around the reins, the new thirst he bore for violence. The worth he felt as the metal flashed and the blood poured and the banners waved. It was exhilarating and pumped life into his veins, life that recoiled at the sound of a rooster crowing, at the smell of a home-cooked meal in his home, at his wife and child beckoning to him with love and adoration. 

Hannah didn’t know who she called out to anymore, and as much as Reynauld loved her, he would make sure she never would know who she called for. Slowly, painfully, with the burden of almost a decade of deaths on his shoulders, Reynauld gave them one last look…

And turned his horse away from them.

… 

“ _I killed them_ ,” Dismas broke, hand on the liquor glass shaking from the great weight of his sins. Reynauld knew that weight, knew it better than most. He just hadn’t expected Dismas to have his own gravity crushing him by the way he normally shrugged off Reynauld’s attempts at friendship and comfort. 

“Who were they?” 

Dismas hiccuped, eyes glistening with his personal shame that he bore to Reynauld. “What does it _matter_? They’re _dead_ because of me.”

Reynauld was caught off guard by the other man’s confession, and even more surprised by his agony over it. He hadn’t thought Dismas cold-hearted necessarily, but Reynauld had killed numerous of innocents during his time spent in the Crusades, more than he would ever care to recount. Small boys with too-large armor sent to overwhelm him with their sheer numbers, young girls sent to slit his throat while he slept or relieved himself. The heathens had even sent their women to tempt the Crusaders into peace, into relinquishing their claim on the foreign lands. Many of Reynauld’s friends had fallen to their poison, seduced to their deaths, but never Reynauld. 

Not even after he had pushed Hannah so far from his mind that he forgot what she looked like. He stayed married to her for as long as he could, and when he couldn’t bear the weight of their matrimony, he pushed that from his mind, too, until he was more married to the memory of her than anything else. Even that faded with time, but still he never touched another.

He watched the tears run over Dismas’ eyes, squeezed shut with that familiar shame Reynauld knew intimately. Women and children, Reynauld had killed them all, then turned his back on his own. Condemned them.

It’s why he needed redemption, here in the Hamlet, here on the Old Road. And maybe Dismas needed it, too, he realized. Slowly, as if reaching for a beast that had bitten him once before, Reynauld placed his hand on Dismas' shoulder and drew the man’s sad eyes up to him. Those same eyes that glared at him, that widened when they met his, that poured over tears, they trusted Reynauld. And strangely, he treasured that. 

"Let's get you to bed," Reynauld murmured fondly. Dismas had been wild that night, laughing and singing and wrestling with the Crusader, then swung into a weepy confession of his bloody past. 

Step by step, with Reynauld supporting most of the drunken man's weight -- which was far too light, as far as Reynauld was concerned, but it was none of his business -- they made their way up to Dismas' room. It wasn't unlike the first time they drank together where the smaller man dragged Reynauld to bed, the first time Reynauld had drank since his acolyte days.

When they finally unlocked the door and got Dismas inside, the man stumbled and Reynauld caught him. Looked up to him with those dark eyes, the color of whiskey, the color of strange, foreign temptation. 

Hesitant, Reynauld thought a quick prayer to himself, well-practiced but muddied with drink and… something else. Something that glowered at him with tear-laden eyes, with flushed ears hid with a shrug of his cowl, with a soft huff as he struggled with his coat. Thoughtless, verseless, Reynauld reached out with surprisingly steady hands and helped the highwayman out of his coat. His hands were gentle, knowing the way Dismas winced when something brushed his Shambler-scarred arm, careful of sliding the material down his arm without bumping his wounds. 

Dismas noticed, and his dark eyes flicked up to Reynauld’s again, stayed on his for a second too long as they were prone to do, looked away with another drunken huff.

Reynauld was oblivious, but he wasn't stupid.

His mouth dried traitorously, his hands acted of their own accord, his heart wrenched with something forgotten, something wanting. It was sinful, shameful, and quickened his breath with excitement. Dismas' gloves came next and Reynauld reached for them, reached for those nervous, fidgeting hands that immediately stilled in his own, as if scared to move. Reynauld unclasped the wrists then and finger by finger, gently pulled until he slowly slid the leather from the man's hands, smaller than Reynauld's but not by much. Capable, firm, dexterous. The highwayman watched him, watched every move, brows knitted and pupils wide, neither rushing him nor stopping him. 

If anything, it encouraged Reynauld, encouraged his hands to reach up to the man's scarf next. He didn't bother saying a prayer in his mind as he undid the knot then unraveled it from his chin, his neck, his shoulders. It fell away effortlessly and Dismas lay bare, barer than Reynauld had ever seen him anyway. 

Without the cowl to hide behind, Reynauld could watch the way Dismas shivered, watch his Adam’s apple move and strain with a swallow, watch his teeth take his bottom lip anxiously. 

It was a heady tension and drunken impulse that moved the Crusader's hands next, shameless and steady, up to Dismas' face. He saw the way he flinched at the contact, at the cool metal of Reynauld's gauntlets cupping his stubble-flecked jaw, thumbs reaching up to wipe at the beads of regret that still gathered in the man's eyes. 

Dismas didn't move, didn't breathe. The air between them smelled of harsh liquor and sweet redolence and Reynauld drank it in greedily, a hunger that he hadn't felt in years awakening deep in his soul. His thumb moved lower, down Dismas' sharp cheekbone, tan and gaunt and shiny with his shed regrets, and moved lower still until his teeth released his lower lip, now swollen from his worrying, for Reynauld to smooth his thumb over. He saw the goosebumps blossom on Dismas' bare neck, his pulse quicken and his eyes wanting, and Reynauld's blood _burned_. Unthinking, Reynauld leaned closer and it took every ounce of self-control he still held to not shame the Light with forbidden sins. He had only felt this same mind-numbing passion overtake him with his wife, decades ago when he was young and amorous. 

With his wife.

With _Hannah_. 

He dropped his hands immediately, leaving Dismas drunk and bereft and shuddering. He had already shamed himself, shamed his past marriage, shamed the holy Light with his wants and desires. Shamed Dismas with his drunken advances, thoughtless and careless and lustful. 

Clearing his throat, Reynauld stepped back to pick up the highwayman's discarded clothing and folded it, the coat, the cowl, the gloves, eyes anywhere but Dismas'. He had never touched a man so intimately, never had any desire to. It had gone against his personal preferences, and more importantly had gone against the holy scriptures. But Dismas seemed to uncover all the parts of Reynauld that the Light hated, that his father hated, that _he_ hated. The crafty smiles, the irreverent questions, the sinful doubt. He buried it again beneath his prayers and verses, Dismas no longer tearful but clearly confused. Confused and drunk and something else, something carnal, and it made Reynauld's veins pump harder when the man leveled his dark whiskey gaze at him. 

Dismas drank, gambled, fucked and Reynauld had no mind for it -- he _did_ have a mind for the aloof Highwayman who saved his life, though, time and time again. For the banter and wit that Dismas summoned in him, so effortlessly. He was too much like Hannah for Reynauld to ignore, and clearly it pushed all of the wrong buttons in him. All of the _right_ buttons, his alcohol-laden mind protested and he smothered his thoughts with holy prayers in answer.

He put the folded clothes on Dismas' nightstand and turned towards the door with determination. Determination to keep his hands to himself, to serve the Light, to stifle whatever strange hunger surged in his veins.

"Goodnight, Dismas."

The next morning, when he woke with the sun and forced himself to meditate, to embrace the Light and reaffirm his Crusader vows, he couldn’t help but to shyly leave a plate with a coffee press and fresh mug at Dismas' door, hoping he could forgive him for the night before. Then he rushed to the abbey so that he might forgive _himself_ for the night before.

At least when Dismas eventually asked if he had done something stupid last night, Reynauld could answer truthfully as promised. For it was _him_ who acted out of sheer stupidity, not Dismas.

~~~~~

Later, when Reynauld was back in control, when Dismas agreed to stay in the Hamlet, when they ventured out to the ruins to help exterminate the undead bone rabble, Reynauld tried not to notice how Dismas' eyes lingered and his ears reddened. He tried not to smile at how Dismas glared every time Reynauld removed his bascinet, at how he matched him so perfectly when they sparred. He tried not to recall how Dismas straddled his lap after pinning him, his shirt stuck to his body with his exertion and his grin wild as he stared down at him. Tried not to balk when he saw another man leaving Dismas' room with him, thick with muscle and beard cut short. Tried not to scratch at his own beard after, wondering if it was high-time he gave it a trim.

Reynauld was no longer as oblivious as the Light would have him be.


	12. Warrens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True to form, the Warrens took forever to edit because I kept adding battles, then removing them because otherwise this would be 10,000+ words of screeching pigs and disease upon disease upon disease.

**12\. Warrens**

Bad news had been an understatement. 

The next few days after the basement ritual flew by as they made their preparations for another dire expedition into Eldritch territory. Alhazred had been able to make contact with someone -- with some _thing_ rather -- that had seemed to take up residence in the Warrens. Something dark and vile, demonic. 

“It calls itself the Swine King,” he told the Heir. Alhazred, Dismas, Reynauld, and the Heir all sat in his filthy study, dirt and cobwebs hanging like decorations. The more time that passed, the more deteriorated the Heir looked, Dismas noted, his once full cheeks starting to hollow and his nervous smiles replaced by heavy frowns, a blond stubble growing on his chin. “It appears to be a creation of the previous Lord of the land here and hides within the Warrens below.”

Dismas had remembered seeing the sign for the Warrens, just outside of town, but knew nothing of them. 

“Gods be good…” the Heir rubbed his hands over his face. “I found a map in my Uncle’s possession that lays out the Warrens. They’re an incredibly ancient system of aqueducts and tunnels, but I can’t imagine when they were built.” He dug around in a pile of aged trinkets and knick knacks then pulled out an old, dog-eared scroll and flattened it out in front of them -- until a maze of winding paths miles beneath the old manor became visible. It might as well have been a map of an ant hill. 

It gave Dismas the creeps, just looking at it, but what didn’t around here anymore?

“To think my Uncle was creating some… fiend! While his city suffered. And then hiding it just below the decrepit manor.” The Heir sighed and stood up, pacing about anxiously. “How would he even have created this… Swine King?”

“Blood rituals,” Alhazred shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing. “A difficult and sinister magic, but not unheard of among certain scholars.”

“Such as yourself?” Dismas scoffed. He could hear the contempt in his voice. It’s not that he didn’t _like_ this demon-summoning, possibly possessed, void-walking professor -- he just didn’t trust someone whose eyes turned black as night and who rumbled an inhuman voice at will. Dismas was a simple highwayman, and communing with ancient evils was not something he cared to involve himself with.

But here he was.

Alhazred chuckled. “Yes, such as myself.”

“But _why_?” the Heir groaned. “What could have driven my Uncle to such madness as to use… blood rituals? To what end?”

“It’s simple. Knowledge - the poison of man,” the Occultist spoke gently. “Since time began, it has been the folly of men such as this Ancestor of yours. He seems to have used the Warrens as a kind of dumping ground for his failed creations. Whatever his true goal was, the Swine King was an unfortunate and unexpected result, from what I could gather.”

“So…” the blond man breathed in, then out. “This isn’t the worst of it?”

Alhazred was somber, sympathetic, as he said, “I’m afraid not.” From what the deranged scholar had gleaned from his time spent communing with devils the nights prior, there seemed to be a greater evil lurking miles and miles beneath the manor. This, along with the existence of the Shambler that still haunted their minds, was reinforced by the mad letter the Ancestor had left for them.

_Ruin has come to our family._

Dismas didn’t want any part of this family, or its ruin, but the time to have fled was long gone, it felt like. The damnable Crusader’s sense of duty must be getting to him.

“So we go down to the Warrens and kick its ass back into the void,” Dismas spoke with false folly.

Reynauld was standing over the map, as if to commit it to memory. “How will we even be able to fight such a beast? We have all but scraped by our last encounters.”

The Occultist smiled at him, at each of them. “To fight the abyss, one must know it. Those from beyond require a physical vessel if they are to make the crossing into our reality.” Dismas raised his eyebrow at that -- he certainly didn’t want to know the abyss any more than he already did. “Men live and die in pursuit of this malevolent knowledge, men such as your Ancestor it seems. Many have sought it out, but those who discover the truth of this world's secrets have found the revelations too much to bear.” Alhazred shook his head mournfully, then placed a hand on his breastbone. “I, however, have utilized that same knowledge to further my understanding of the Eldritch.”

Everything about this man set Dismas on edge, made him uncomfortable, made his fingers twitch towards his gun and rang his mental alarms. He had to admit, though, that this Alhazred was probably their best bet at understanding these nightmarish creatures they fought.

“I must request to join you on your next expedition,” he continued. 

Dismas and Reynauld looked to each other, waiting for some refusal or objection from one or another. Honestly, Dismas had many objections, but he bit his lip and shrugged at the Crusader, who nodded back in the affirmative. “Fine. But don’t expect us to carry you all the way there and back.”

Alhazred laughed, darkly, and shook his turbaned head. “Do not fear. My Eldritch powers can rend the souls of even the foulest beasts, but at the cost of calling the ever-looking shadows closer.” Well, okay, if Dismas didn’t have reservations before about bringing this scholar along, he certainly did now as goosebumps crawled up his arms. He seemed a necessary evil to grin and bear for the time being if they were to best this Swine King.

The Heir spoke up again. “And I’d like you to take Jingles, too, if you will. He is to report directly back to me.”

“So…” Dismas trailed off. “You want a demon scholar and your insane butler to accompany us into the Warrens?” That would’ve been six people, a crowd of them, and two of whom Dismas wasn’t even sure could fight. The Heir shook his tired head.

“I only want four on an expedition at a time. Just in case you --” He stopped himself mid-sentence and looked at them sheepishly.

_Just in case you die._ Dismas raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” the Heir cleared his throat, laced his fingers, recovered poorly. “Just in case, is all.” 

As if on cue, Jingles came dancing into the light, clad only in mildewed cloth with a set of jester bells atop his head that rang loudly with each step, all a blood red and a mockery of battle. He cackled behind his mask, taking another deep bow as he entered the room. “It seems our prancing fob beckons me to my doom at last.” 

Dismas gave Reynauld another look. _If we survive this outing, it is doubtful our sanity will_ , he thought with irritation. At least Jingles had a sharpened knife and sickle at his hips, though he also had a white lute strapped to his back -- a jaunty tune from this cackling clown didn’t seem very comforting to Dismas. The Heir packed up the map for them, along with a few provisions, bedrolls, and camping supplies to accompany them to the Warrens, since it was such a large twisting labyrinth, then sent them on their way with an empty blessing.

The sooner they got this over with, the better.

~~~~~

The whole trip down to the Warrens was uneventful, to say the least. 

Jingles played discordant melodies on his lute, howling unsettling chords to the surrounding silence. Dismas felt his pack weighing him down, heavily, filled to the brim with supplies. He hated traveling this overloaded, but it was agreed that they should pack for a night or two as a precaution; just the thought of having to sleep down here, in the decades old, crumbling cesspit made Dismas anxious. Clearly he was spoiled by the hard bed and threadbare sheets of the tavern.

Reynauld muttered hymns as they descended, buffing himself, and Alhazred studied the map every so often, as they tread down, down for what felt like hours. Quiet, repetitive, uneventful.

Until it wasn’t. 

Their first torch was just starting to burn its last breath, casting dim shadows and doing their sanity no favors when they heard something skittering from the room. Jingles’ lute twanged to a sudden silence and they were all on edge, holding their breaths, eyes straining in the darkness. They stayed like that, tense and still and waiting to see if any further noises came.

Voice low, uncertain, Reynauld whispered, “Rats, perhaps?”

Dismas gave him an incredulous look in return and hissed back, “That’s what you said last time!” 

Another sound broke through the blackness ahead, a strange screeching, guttural trill. Like… an _oinking_ squeal. Dismas blinked, then waited for it again to see if his ears misled him. He had assumed the name “Swine King” to be some disgusting pseudonym, representative of god-knows-what, not an actual lord of boars and filth.

Reynauld drew his sword and brandished it, while Dismas stood behind and prepared his own weapons. Together, the four of them crept forward into the other room, each step accentuated by the jingle of the Jester’s bells. If Dismas wasn’t so on edge, he might have snapped at the other man and his ridiculous garb, but as it stood, his focus was commanded elsewhere. The torchlight flickered lowly and barely stretched ahead, but eventually crawled up to something solid, something bizarre, propped up before them.

It was… a loom, of sorts. An old weaving loom, vertical and made out of simple wood and cloth. There seemed to be writing on it, and Dismas leaned closer to read the words --

\-- and regretted it. 

As he drew close, a terrible smell hit him and he understood what he was looking at, but just barely. His mind rejected it and his stomach turned and he wanted to scrape the curio from his mind with his own dirk. They were scrawlings, written on what looked to be stretched and tanned skin -- _human_ skin -- and sloppily carved into the flesh tapestry were the words:

_Welcome fresh meat._

Dismas backed up, stomach in his throat, and turned to the others pale-faced. “Guess we’re in the right place.”

His hands shook slightly, felt the all-too familiar cracks at his sanity return, and they moved on to the next room of horrors. The curios and traps seemed endless after that and ranged from mildly disturbing to vomit-inducing as they went by room to room, following the map and Alhazred’s guidance. They found a rack of knives, which was a just wooden platform propped up and covered in wet blood and blades and rust. They found sacrificial stones and altars, unholy and clearly used for some kind of barbaric worship. Then, they found a cart of… human remains, set in some kind of wooden feeding trough. The various limbs and hacked body parts that stuck out were being eaten by flies and the gore that leaked from the limbs had congealed to a reeking slime. 

Reynauld swore to the Light, Dismas crinkled his nose in disgust, but Jingles just cackled and said, “Oh thank the gods, I am _famished_.” 

Then sauntered up to the cart and reached right in. Right into the wretched pile of skin and mush, of blood and gore, of flies and stench that assaulted all of their senses at once. Whatever vile joke he was playing at was cut short with a sharp _“aiyee!”_ as he yanked back his hand and danced away, knife and sickle out and bells ringing all about him.

“Something _bit_ me!”

They were all on guard immediately, weapons poised as something started moving within the cart, swimming through the dead flesh and entrails. An arm lifted out of the feeding trough, long and human, reaching out the side and blindly grabbing for them, for anything and nothing. Another arm stretched out of the human waste as well and hoisted itself up, onto the side of the wooden cart, and _crash_ , caused the cart to tip over on its side with an echoing clatter. 

Mess and gore leaked everywhere, with blood and whatever else pooling under the broken wood and lumps of rotted meat. The black flies descended as a pink mass rolled out from the decrepit pile of half-eaten corpses and started crawling towards them, squealing.

It was… some swine-looking wretch, piggish and human all at once. The long snout of a sow snarled at them, baring broken yellow teeth caked in red filth from the food cart, black eyes rolling madly. It inched towards them on its two long, human arms, longer than the rest of its stubby pig body which it dragged behind lamely. It was either the result of the Ancestor’s failed blood rituals or years of inbreeding, its body twisted and contorted into an unfathomable mess of human and pork flesh, like some sickly hybrid of man and piglet.

Swallowing back bile, Dismas was quick to put it out of its misery, along with all of their equally disgusted miseries watching on, with a single well-placed bullet before it could get any closer. It rang loud down the chambers and stilled the pile of human-pig meat immediately, though its arms still twitched sporadically. 

“This is worse than I thought,” Alhazred muttered as he approached the vile corpse. “They seem to be breeding at an exponential rate.” 

The four of them looked down at the swine wretch, at the mangled amalgamation seeping sickly blood into the already pooling swamp of flesh and flies from the food cart. Down a hallway, echoing in the distance somewhere, they heard more squealing and skittering, along with what sounded like a slow, steady beat of drums announcing their arrival further within. How many more Light awful, diseased pig-creatures would they be at the mercy of? 

…

It turned out to be _dozens_. Dozens of swinefolk, all mashed together with bits of sow and human, rusted weapons all hungry for fresh meat. Large tusked boars with serrated cleavers and the bulging strength to use them wildly and tirelessly, fleshy pink drummers that seemed to beat on an instrument made of supple, flayed face-skin and screeched out discordant piggish screams that tore at their minds, more and more and _more_ of those swine wretches that spit acid vomit at their feet and made them ill. 

Dozens of them, all squealing. It was butchery, it was madness, and it was never ending. 

Alhazred had been a blessing in disguise, an angel garbed in robes that flailed from windless evil spirits, whose eyes blackened as he summoned seemingly limitless Eldritch power to his fingertips. He warbled hexes and curses at their foes who threatened to overpower them with might and inhuman protection, and when the swine wretches in the back built up their burning bile to spill all over them, he summoned his harrowing tentacle magic to yank them into their slaughtering range.

One after another, the pigmen fell, only to be replaced by four more to ambush them in the next room.

“Does anyone know the cure for hemophilia?” Jingles asked at one point, when they had found a blessed reprieve from the masses that swarmed them. The bite on his hand from that first creature they had encountered, hours ago, seemed to be festering and he picked at it with his sickle. 

“Not sticking your hand into the nearest pile of corpses is a good start, clown,” answered Reynauld, who was counting their remaining supplies and rather large amounts of loot.

“Well, that doesn’t help me _now_. How do you expect me to serenade everyone with a rotted hand?” As if to prove a point, Jingles whipped out his lute and began to play erratically, a cacophony of clashing notes that sounded no different than the tune he was playing earlier. Dismas, in the back of the room scrounging for hidden gold or ancient relics, glared at the maniacal Jester from over his shoulder.

“Jingles, quiet the fuck down unless you want that lute shoved straight up your -- ” He stopped short and looked down at his hand. 

The weathered brick he had just passed over seemed… loose. It jutted out strangely from the uniform wall and Dismas smiled; he knew a hidden compartment when he saw one. He felt around, noting multiple bricks were loose around this one, and started to think maybe this wasn’t just a hidden compartment, but a hidden passage. Why would an old aqueduct need a secret passage, unless for storing large amounts of sequestered treasures? 

“Up my what?” Jingles continued to play, voice sing-song. “I hate cliffhangers, Dismas.”

One by one, the stones came free. By now, Reynauld was at his side, helping him yank each one out until it opened to a corridor, praying that they didn’t cause a cave in. Together, they stared down the short, dark corridor and lit a torch, then carefully stepped in. 

At the other end was a tiny room, more like a storage wing than anything else, filled with boxes and shelves. The two men shared a greedy glance, then parted and immediately went to work scouring through the crates and taking out anything worthwhile, anything that glittered or that could be sold. Upon the numerous shelves, were grain sacks tied with rope. One appeared to be full and Reynauld reached for it.

Then stilled.

“Looks like we’ll be eating good tonight, Reynauld,” Dismas spoke with a wolfish grin. His pack was overflowing with dark gems from the locked containers he had pried open, but he stopped when he didn’t get a response from the other man.

“Reynauld?”

The Crusader was standing at the shelf, back to Dismas, staring down into the burlap sack. Jingles and Alhazred came into the room as well, just as the Crusader dropped the bag to the floor with a sickening squelch as if it were his undoing -- and out of it rolled a… a severed head, bloody and mangled. The bottom jaw of the face was missing, but part of the spine still hung from the nape of the neck grotesquely, vertebrae shining white against the black and claret. It was disgusting on its own, wet in the dirt-covered stone floor, and seemed partially mummified by now, but Jingles dove for it with a gleeful laugh.

“A new puppet! Just what I was looking for!” The deranged clown propped it up on his hand so that it faced them, torn skin still dangling from where its bottom jaw once hung, upper teeth yellow and exposed, and clayed blood clotted down the spine. “And look, Dismas, it’s you!” 

Dismas squinted in the dim light, looking at the dead, grey face staring back at him. Yeah, it had a shock of black hair cut short on the sides, a crooked nose that had clearly been broken a few times, thin eyebrows framing two carved out eyes, gaunt and empty, sharp cheekbones jutting out over hollow cheeks. The skin might have been tan before it turned a mottled grey, maybe, but who’s to say? He looked up at Jingles, unimpressed. “Hmph. That looks nothing like me.”

Jingles cracked out a peal of high-pitched laughter and started mimicking him with the severed head, as if some deranged puppet show. And to think Dismas had been in a good mood moments ago. Even Alhazred shook his head at him.

“Tell me, Reynauld,” Jingles spoke in a deep voice, clearly mocking Dismas’ normal clipped growl. “How many bottles of whiskey does it take to make a priest blush?”

“ _Enough_ , clown,” Reynauld bit out, anger lacing his words and hand on his hilt. “It is a bad omen.” Dismas raised his eyebrow at him, at the stress in his voice and the stiffness in his posture. He supposed finding a severed head in a bag when you were hoping for untold riches was pretty distressing, so he put his hand on Reynauld’s shoulder with an irreverent smile.

“Relax, Reynauld. I still have my head, for now, so let’s sort all this loot before Jingles sends us both into a heart attack.” It didn’t seem to improve the Crusader’s mood, but it did draw his attention away from the Obviously-Not-Dismas head Jingles was still cackling over. Alhazred was scolding the Jester for tampering with something that was clearly of Eldritch origin, leaving the two other men to their own silence stretched over their gold and gems, heads close. 

“You okay?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Reynauld answered curtly. Dismas thought that would be all he got out of the other man, until eventually he quietly added, “I just don’t enjoy seeing severed heads that resemble my partners, is all.”

_Partners_. Okay. Guess they were partners. After basically getting caught with his pants down the other day, and the subsequent awkwardness that followed their hallway run in, Dismas would take whatever he could get. They hadn’t had any time together since then, due to the Heir’s frantic rush of this expedition, and he had been anxiously expecting disgust or religious bigotry from the other man. ‘ _Partners_ ’ was a more refreshing term than he cared to admit after all of his worrying. Dismas chuckled lowly, head bowed over, and said, “I’m far better looking than that thing is anyway.”

That seemed to help; Reynauld laughed softly in his bascinet and Dismas liked that. He felt a warmth wash over him from the sound. “Just stay by me when we fight this beast, alright?”

Dismas felt his ears flush hot at that and remembered back in the ruins, him running off through the army of bone rabble by himself to face down the Necromancer. It had paid off in the end, but only because Reynauld had been there the moment Dismas had inevitably fallen. Maybe they could do things differently this time, in a way that didn’t result in Dismas blacking out from one thing or another and being carried to safety. That’d be nice.

“Alright.”

It felt good to be in this semi-comfortable company again. Companionship. Camaraderie. In the background, Jingles and Alhazred were still laughing and arguing, respectively, but Dismas just enjoyed their own mutual quiet while they split up the treasures. 

Suddenly, their bickering stopped sharply, even the Jester’s cackling, and Dismas looked up at the now eerie silence. 

In the doorway to the secret room was a… a tall figure, looming, its massive length filling the space from floor to ceiling. It was cloaked in a long, faded yellow overcoat that enclosed its entire body, hanging sleeves falling just above almost human-looking hands, knobbed and withered and gangly like the legs of a spider. Atop its shoulders, jarringly, as if taken from another creature entirely, was a skull suspended in an old, rusted brazier that shone a sickly blue, staring at them with empty sockets pricked with red.

It seemed as surprised by their looting as they were by its abrupt appearance, neither party acting first, until its skinless head clicked loudly within the metal cage as it twitched to life. 

Alhazred was the closest person to it and the beast towered above him, nearly twice his height, as it screeched a painful sound in the small, secret room filled with its collections that shook them to their cores. It stunned Dismas for just a moment before he leapt to action, hand on his gun sooner than the haunting creature could move again and spilling dark gems from his pack as he yanked out his dirk. Reynauld was next on his feet and ready, and after Dismas fired a shot into the hulking overcoat, the Crusader charged towards the massive Collector with his sword as a holy lance and pierced the black within.

Their dual attack seemed to wake the others from their shock, and Jingles dropped the head to whip out his blades and covered Alhazred as he retreated further back. Once at a safer distance, the Occultist turned, held up the polished head in his hand, and closed his eyes to their surprise battle. The atmosphere thrummed with a dark energy then, as if a pebble being thrown into still water, muting them all for just a moment, and blazingly, the flame atop the candle was lit of its own accord. When Alhazred reopened his eyes, they were as black as the giant Collector’s.

Dismas was in the middle of reloading another shot when the thing screeched again, loud and grating, shaking the gems at the floor when suddenly the severed head rolled upright. The Collector flung open its coat, dusty yellow fabric flapping, and exposed… 

Death. Obsidian death, a mess of glittering onyx ooze and pitch like a web of ligaments where its body should have been instead opened to a nightmare mass of bubbling black. One by one, the eerie blue light of its brazier sparked inside the matter, still dripping in from its opened coat, until the bulbous shapes took… took form, almost resembling --

Skulls. 

Black heaps solidified like a cobweb of severed heads, writhing and squirming and peaking open a sickening blue eye, one by one, until the mesh of heads peered out at him like odious onlookers. It bore into Dismas’ mind worse than death, worse than the Shambler almost, carving its own permanence within his psyche to haunt him for the rest of his life, however short that may be.

Even Reynauld seemed to freeze as the partial head at his feet quavered, trembled like jelly as the congealed blood seemed to _grow_ , expanding around the long spinal cord and thickening between each vertebrae. It was solidifying, raising slowly as if with its own body, unfurling with blood and blue fluorescence alike. Reynauld didn’t move a muscle as it stretched to full length, the long backbone still visible through the gore and the light, mouth still hanging open and smeared bloody from where the bottom half of the jaw should have been. He didn’t move as two bright blue sparks flickered to life within those hollowed out eyes, didn’t move as the ghoul brandished a spectral knife and _sliced_.

Dismas was quick on his feet, hopping over a broken chest to dive between Reynauld and the shadow of a Highwayman long dead with his own knife, mind fraying at how… similar they were. In appearance, in weaponry, even in their attacks. The thing riposted just as _he_ would, just as he was forced to, a blow delivered and a blow earned, then the two broke apart without landing a hit on the other. Dismas wasn’t sure how to fight this thing, but blessedly, Reynauld seemed to have returned to his senses after Dismas dodged another brutal swipe.

With a fortifying shout, the Crusader swung up with his sword then slashed, his reach too long for the phantom Highwayman to dodge from in time. When the blade passed through, the thing didn’t bleed, merely… faded some, the ghostly blue wavering around the edge Reynauld had struck. It was maddening and between the Collector and his human collection, seemed to skew their grip on reality.

A symphonic chord behind them tore through their growing hysteria and helped stabilize them, shockingly, and soon after a large, lashing tentacle appeared from the void and wrapped around the apparition, stilling it. 

While the bloodied image of Dismas struggled in the Eldritch grasp, much to Dismas’ surprise and satisfaction that it wasn’t directed at _him_ this time, that left the Collector to them, its yellow trench coat still hanging wide and haunting. Dismas fired another shot, point blank, into the wriggling mass of black skulls, seeming to shock the nightmare beast with the force of it, and Reynauld was quick with a following stab. Again and again, they traded places, back and forth and completely in-sync with one another while Jingles soothed their minds and Alhazred grappled with the Highwayman apparition. Any time the Collector drew back with a shrieking attack, Dismas would dance to the front, deliberately twisting in its path for the sake of the cutting riposte it earned him. Each time, Reynauld huffed in protest, but Dismas was quick and his blade was sharp and thus the pain was mostly mental.

Slowly, they whittled down its health, managing to keep the skeletal creature at bay in the small room. It was more tedious, more exhausting and more mind-wrenching than any of their fights with the pigs, but the black matter seemed to eventually seep at their feet and the blue light flickered. 

As if in retaliation, the white skull within the brazier started to twitch and click again, hands raised and overcoat billowing as the eyes within lit up once more. It seemed to be summoning another collected corpse, much to their horror. The demon still in Alhazred’s clutches finally managed to cut free of the lashing tentacle, wide mouth dripping with red saliva as it turned on Dismas. He dodged, riposted, then was thrown back with a staggering force just as the deadly knife cut at the air where his throat had been.

Reynauld stood instead with scroll in hand -- the Necromancer’s scroll that Dismas had given to him what felt like ages ago. Whatever Reynauld had done to bless the scripture, it seemed to glow a bright white, blazing and burning away the shadows and blue glow of the Collector and the undead ghoul. 

“Flame within me!” The Collector clicked at his words, writhed at the holy light filling the room, drowning out the specter-Dismas entirely. “Turn away this foul blackness!”

There was a rattling shriek that eventually faded to a chilling silence, and when Dismas could finally peek over his arm blocking the bright white from blinding him, he saw… nothing. No Collector, dead or alive, no ghostly Highwayman meeting him blow for blow. The room was empty, save for the four of them, over as abruptly as it had begun.

Jingles gave a final alleviating thrum of his lute, which broke the eerie quiet as if in finale to their battle. Reynauld was rolling the scroll back up when Dismas breathlessly asked, “Did you kill it?”

It was Alhazred who answered, eyes fading back to their human coloring as he blew out the flame atop his strange, Eldritch weapon. “No. I can still feel its power within the Warrens. Most likely, it’s hunting more victims for reinforcements.”

_Great._ As if this fight hadn’t been hard enough, Dismas hated to see what other heads it might scrounge together next time. He put away his weapons, glared at Jingles who was lamenting the loss of his Dismas-puppet by way of song, and walked around to face Reynauld. The other man was hunched over something, something that glinted as Dismas approached.

Another black gem glimmered up at them, feeling almost malevolent. 

“The ghost left it,” Reynauld remarked, his voice sounding hollowed out and exhausted compared to the booming thunder he had summoned with it moments ago. He was quiet, pensive, as he stooped down and grabbed it, then held it up to Dismas. “It _resembled_ you, Dismas. That bloodied apparition.”

Dismas couldn’t deny the similarities, sickening as it was to consider, though he still tried to and forced himself to shrug it off. For his own sanity. Whatever terrible, mind-breaking means that the Collector had used to harvest a head so similar to his own was better left unexamined for now. Their ever-unwavering Crusader seemed shaken by it, though, so Dismas stopped for a moment, averted his eyes and chewed his cheek, took a deep breath then recited, 

_“Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
Looms but the Horror of the shade  
And yet the menace of the years  
Finds, and will find, me unafraid”_

There was a long pause between them and Dismas could feel his ears redden at a poem created long ago, in his youth, when he was all bravado and bluster and lived only for coin and women. Back when he had thought himself invincible. 

He knew better now, but the shadow of his naive fearlessness was a small comfort in this filth-ridden hellhole. 

Reynauld stared at him, then cleared his throat and said, “That was… surprisingly beautiful, though its meaning is lost on me.” Unable to help himself, Dismas glared at Reynauld and snatched the gem from his hand, embarrassed, unsure of why he had even opened his mouth at all.

“It _means_ that I ain’t gonna die, tinhead. Ever.” He buried his face in his cowl, the soft moment between them gone, and kneeled down to undo his overfilled pack, hoping to either find room for the additional gem or to make room somehow. It looked expensive, after all. Eventually, Dismas straightened up and said, “Shit, I’m full up. What about you?”

“Likewise.” Dismas thought for a moment before digging back in his pouch and pulling out a large wad of clean bandages, wound up and tied neatly, then discarded them over his shoulder and added the dark gem to the pile.

“There!” he said triumphantly, loot all bundled together.

Reynauld looked from him to his very-full bag, hesitant. “Are you sure that is wise? What if we need those?”

Dismas shrugged. He preferred to live by the seat of his pants if it meant greater riches in his pocket, and so far they had managed to avoid most injury and disease the pigs spread. According to the Heir’s map, they seemed to be nearing the end of the aqueducts, blessedly without much physical incident, though they were all feeling the mental effects of their expedition. As annoying as Jingles was, he was actually perfect for dispatching these wretched beasts -- his sickle and knife bled everything dry that was in his path, accompanied by his screeching laughter and bells as the pigs fell around him. Even his discordant lute was beginning to soothe them by comparison.

“If one of these filthy swinefolk comes near me enough to gravely wound me, I kindly ask you to put me out of my misery lest Jingles need a new puppet.” He had said it with a smile, but Reynauld didn’t respond and instead grabbed the torch and turned to the other two. 

“We’re full on loot and low on supplies. We should move on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is Invictus by William Ernest Henley, certainly not mine, and yet I'm still just beyond embarrassed to be adding poetry to my fic. _Moving on_.
> 
> Swine King is next, which I'm excited for, so any feedback to help me prep the next chapter is appreciated!


	13. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swine King is one of those bosses I stop and say "what the fuck am I fighting?" every so often, which is why I was so excited for this chapter.

**13\. Blood**

They hadn’t been able to explore everything down here; they lacked both the supplies and the sanity, plus Dismas was itching to leave the muggy, stinking and filth-rotted aqueducts as soon as physically possible. He was cranky and stressed and overburdened with loot, if one could be overburdened with such wonders. It was the only brightside to this dismal adventure -- that and the Crusader squeezing his shoulder and saying with unshakeable confidence, “Remain vigilant, Dismas. We will win the day.”

He felt his stress lessen at that and managed a small, grateful smile in thanks.

Alhazred led them to an open sewer grate that turned down into a large pit and stopped there. This was the end of the road, apparently, the end of the map. Either their resting place or their grounds of valor and victory. 

Only one way to find out, as much as Dismas didn’t want to.

He cracked open his wineskin and took a deep swig of it -- it was good stuff, a fine whiskey bought with the remainder of his coin after that brothel worker took off with the majority of his wealth the days prior. _Hmph_.

The four of them stared down the hole, fetid and rank as if they were jumping into the very pits of Hell itselves. Even Jingles and all of his maddening bells were silent. As always, Reynauld took the lead, sword held out in front of him, their unshakeable leader carving the path into darkness for them. Dismas stayed close, as he promised, senses alert and eyes blown wide to adjust for the darkness. Alhazred had just lit a fresh torch, so this was as good as it was going to get -- which wasn’t even enough to light up the whole room. These demonic beasts from the void seemed to prefer wide open rooms, pitched in black, covered in rot, and reeking of death, apparently.

The ground sloped down sharply to a huge cavern, yawning wide beneath the aqueducts. Dark shapes and silhouettes surrounded them in the abyss, a suffocating presence all around that Dismas eyed suspiciously, vision focusing until they appeared to move from his sight. A trick of the light, or a touched mind, surely, as they seemed to be nothing more than heaps of waste and squalor, some piled to the tops of the cavern. 

Nothing came lunging out at them, with blades and teeth or drums and vomit. Nothing shook the walls or upturned the earth at their approach. If anything, the stillness unsettled Dismas even more.

_There_ , in the shadows, just ahead of them. Movement. A guttural grunt. Then finally…

A piglet.

It was tiny. Smaller, even, than the first lump of swinefolk they encountered swimming in the food cart earlier and it waddled into the light on puny hind legs. It was a runt, feeble and paltry, yet it glowered up at them with commanding eyes and stood there, sizing each of them up as if it were more.

Jingles shrieked out a hyena laugh, doubling over on himself and holding his sides, which made Dismas jump. He was still on edge down here, alarms still shrill in his mind.

“ _What a joke_ ,” he heaved between breaths. “ _Positively hilarious_.”

The piglet crossed it’s little arms, which sent Jingles into another fit. “My deepest apologies, _my liege_ , I meant no offense to your kingly stature. Truly, I care not whence my bacon comes, merely that I may _feast_.” And with that, he swung a long, skinny leg back for a breath, then _slammed_ it into the pig who went squealing back into the dark.

All was quiet, except for Jingles’ bells and giggles, so Dismas turned back towards Alhazred. “Was that really the Swine King we were so worried about?”

He shook his head gravely. “No.”

A sudden roar ripped through the large cavern, seared through their ears and bones alike, causing the stones above to crumble and the whole cavern to rattle. Dust fell upon them as ahead, one of the massive piles of what Dismas had thought was refuse and debris moved, rose, charged straight for them from the pits of darkness.

Reynauld stepped back, sword poised, voice loud and steady over the deep rumble. “It comes!”

Before they could react, something huge came swinging out of the black abyss and slammed into them like a brick wall, sending them all flying. An arm. A huge, fleshy pink arm, human like, laden with sores and festering blood and pus, gargantuan in size. It was the last thing Dismas saw before the light went out, flung across the room with the rest of them and splashed into a puddle of Light-knows-what.

He was winded, dazed. Stars swam before Dismas’ eyes, but those were the only thing in his vision. The rest was pitch black. _Reynauld_ , came his first coherent thought. He had promised to stay near the other man, but Dismas couldn’t even register which direction was up in the shadowy void enveloping them all. 

Something squealed in his direction -- that tiny pig -- a shrill and foreboding sound, and Dismas tried to rush to his feet, alert, but he was still stunned and stumbled back down into the muck. 

“Wounding the small one has infuriated the giant!” Somewhere in the dark, Alhazred called out, voice far across the room from where Dismas was laying. Dismas was disoriented, but he knew that squeal meant another attack was incoming, most likely towards him based on the proximity of that harsh sound echoing in the dark, echoing in his mind. He had to act fast. He grabbed for his gun, his knife, but found only slop beneath him. 

Light, blessed light, flared to life before him, piercing the dark and exposing the revolting, fetid face of some monstrous beast. It’s wide mouth hung open, unable to close for the giant tusks protruding from its wretched bleeding gums. The snout was cut close to its face, smushed back and deformed and oozing with every exhale, and the eyes were black as night save for two tiny pinholes of red shining through the dark, not unlike when Alhazred had been overcome by the void. Numbly, Dismas flashed back to the Occultist’s words before they departed.

_Those from beyond require a physical vessel if they are to make the crossing into our reality._

What kind of Flame-bedamned, unholy nightmares was the Ancestor trying to drag into their existence, squealing and shrieking from the void? It was a travesty, a blundering mountain of hate and rage and atop the massive head, lay open for brain and gore, was an iron crown with sharp spikes that nearly touched the ceiling. Instead of legs, its massive body ended at the torso where squirming innards held it in place, bone and bowels all moving like jelly snakes, one over the other. It was immobile, but its long arms made up for any distance between them and it held a colossal rusty cleaver, mottled with holes and broken at the edge, but still just as menacing if not more so.

And between him and the calamitous beast, Reynauld stood with a freshly lit torch, reaching down and clasping Dismas’ good arm. He hoisted him to his feet and wordlessly handed him the flame, then drew his sword in that familiar stance they had sparred in. 

The Swine King roared, piercing their ear drums once more and shaking the ground beneath their feet as it swung the cleaver at them, from their right, the blade easily as long as Dismas was tall. He wanted to run, to roll and dodge and panic, but Reynauld roared back at the beast and stood his ground, deflecting the blade with a mighty cuff of his longsword. It soared over their heads, just barely, and Dismas quickly drew his gun for support and took aim, then fired at the King’s malformed face. 

It hit true, and the Swine King reeled back, entrails writhing and lashing against the stones with wet slapping sounds. Somewhere below, Dismas heard the tiny swine squealing. It held a tattered flag in its hand and seemed to be directing the Swine King with its motioning and inhuman noises. 

Maybe if they could kill it, it would give them the upper hand…

Before Dismas could line up a clear shot, the Swine King slammed the ground with an angry fist, blocking the smaller pig from sight. “It’s protecting the little swine!” Dismas shouted.

The beast screamed again, blood spurting into the light, both a grotesque and beautiful sight, and Dismas heard bells as Jingles twirled around it. He sliced with sickle and dirk alike, dancing, laughing as the acid blood fell about him, cut after cut. “They squeal like pigs in their gowns and finery!” he sang, laughed, sliced. It gave Dismas another opening, an opportunity, that maybe if he could just hit the creature’s eye…

It lashed back right as Dismas pulled the trigger, shot lost to the darkness as tentacles sprouted from the floor like thick vines and grappled with the massive pig. 

Dismas turned and saw Alhazred, silken sleeves whipping about him and polished skull held high towards the Swine King. His eyes were beaded black and red once more, filled with the hateful light from something beyond as he spoke slithering curses to the candlelit skull. 

“ _The gate to hell is open_ ,” he shouted with that layered voice from before. “ _I will seal it away with the very power it gives me!_ ”

The tentacles thrashed at the massive King and it tore out another roaring squeal, then swung its cleaver at the tentacles, at the four of them, at the wall. Dismas managed to get out of the way of the abominable blade, but rocks crumbled from above and crashed down against the stone floor, all around them. Debris nicked him, cutting and aching, but was nothing compared to the rush of adrenaline in his veins. Jingles seemed to take the brunt of the attack as the massive arm swatted him away, into a pile of jagged stones still settling and scraping in the darkness, bells ringing but laughter silenced.

Slowly, painfully, Dismas rolled upright and saw Reynauld still at arms, battered and dirty but valiant as ever. He blocked the Swine King’s next swipe, one then another and another while they recovered, each cut closer than the last. 

“Thou art judged by the Eternal Flame, demon!”

Dismas found his gun, reloaded, cocked it, then fired towards the beast’s eyes once more, emptying a volley of grapeshot blasts into the fleshy face of the monster. They sunk into the drooping skin and struck close enough to the eyes to give Reynauld some breathing room, thankfully, and he looked back to nod his gratitude. The Highwayman nodded back -- perhaps Dismas wouldn’t have to be dragged out of this fight by the other man after all.

The Swine King rebounded quicker than either of them expected, as if hellbent on fury and madness to destroy them, the small pig’s screams rousing and directing the massive cleaver. With Reynauld distracted, out of his defending stance, the mammoth creature raised its arm, skin and meat and tendons now flayed from Reynauld’s sword to expose the two bleached white forearm bones within. It hefted the cleaver high above, like a guillotine, before Dismas’ horrified eyes --

“ _Reynauld…!_ ”

\-- and brought it down. It slammed into the earth, into the Crusader who had barely had time to block it. Who didn’t have time to block it. 

Warm blood flecked Dismas’ aghast face. _Reynauld’s blood_. The age-weathered blade had cut straight into the Crusader’s armor, past his hauberk and chainmail, past his buffs and Light, and had bitten deep into Reynauld’s left shoulder. Blood waterfalled down and pooled freely at his feet, coating the holy symbol, leaving Dismas unable to breathe, to think, to do anything other than stare helplessly at the man still holding his ground somehow. Reynauld didn’t collapse or crumble; his legs seemed to shake beneath the weight of the blade, of the wound, and gasped out in pain, sword trembling in his hands, but still he stood upright. 

“You Light-less fiend.” Dismas could hear the blood lacing each word, each breath, from the Crusader. “The Flame will not wane with my death.”

His words set Dismas to action and he ran to him without thinking, meant to pull him free of the wicked knife, meant to save him in some way, any way possible, but instead watched in horror as the Swine King raised his weapon and took Reynauld with it. His body dangled from the meat cleaver, but when Dismas squinted… It looked like Reynauld was _holding on_ to it by one of the many eroded holes.

_What was he doing?_

As if that grievous cut wasn’t bad enough, there’s no way someone would survive a fall from that height, armored or not.

The Swine King brought Reynauld close, as if trying to get a good look at him with his blind, blackened eyes, while the smaller pig still clamored from below. Dismas worked to reload his flintlock pistol, hands steady, heart pounding, blood still warm on his face, when he glanced up and saw Reynauld take his longsword --

And spear the wretched beast right through its eye.

The King roared and reared back, longsword protruding from its eyelid, screeching louder than any of his cries before. It shook Dismas to his very core, made him want to vomit, made him want to crawl away and retreat just to end the squealing wails that shook him, but his eyes never once left Reynauld. He watched the Swine King fling the Crusader from his blade in pain and anger, tossing him into a wall which crumbled on top of him as he slid down it.

“No!” Dismas cried out.

Alhazred’s tentacled magic was back, swarming the beast as it reeled and flailed blindly, and the clown’s bells could be heard somewhere below the tree-trunk arms. A white-hot rage burned behind Dismas’ eyes, fury blurring his vision, and he shot the rest of his rounds at the pig, one loud shot after another, slow and methodical, save for one lone bullet. If worse came to worse. With the King's thrashing, Dismas couldn't be sure if he managed to hit its other eye, but his shots were effective regardless as the beast attempted to shrink back into the dark, entrails sloshing and slapping the ground. Reynauld seemed to have set the stage for a final attack, so Dismas left the others to press the advantage. 

He turned and dashed towards where Reynauld lay beneath a pile of dirt and rubble, torchlight flickering from how quickly he ran, but he slowed when he saw the tiny piglet standing over the Crusader’s prone form, alive but clearly on death’s door. His eyes darkened immediately, a hateful snarl rising to his lips and hand shaking on his gun.

“ _You_.” 

The piglet squealed, high-pitched and maddening, but Dismas had no sanity left to give it. Behind him, he heard the twang of the Jester’s lute and a bright flash of white light, then the Swine King and the violence stilled as if by some grand finale that Dismas had no mind for. 

“You vile _swine bastard_ ,” Dismas bit out. 

He still had one bullet left, but his hand shook too much to trust his aim so instead of shooting the filthy creature, Dismas set the torch down and grabbed the small pig, who screeched and spit and bit at him, then stabbed it through with his knife. Up to the very hilt and further, trembling with rage that didn’t leave him as the thing died in his hands and seared him with blood. He tossed the warm corpse to the side, sheathed his knife, and ran to Reynauld who lay still, too still, beneath the ruins of the wall. 

Dismas made quick work of the stones, throwing them with a strength he didn’t know he had, until he had finally cleared the pile of rubble. Gently, Dismas rolled Reynauld onto his back and the Crusader tensed, hissing at the movement. 

“ _Gods_ ,” breathed Dismas.

The light was low, skewed from its position on the stones, but it was enough to see… blood. _So much blood_. The entire front of Reynauld’s hauberk was soaked in it and the mail was split open, dented inwards and shorn through. Dismas took off his already-filthy leatherskin gloves, then went to work on shedding the other man’s armor, piece by piece. It came apart easily enough, but Dismas moved gently, his hands still shaking and the worry of hurting Reynauld further slowing his progress. As he worked, his bare hands grazed against bumps on his back, lifted flesh healed over past wounds. Dismas tried not to look, tried not to invade the man's privacy, but he couldn't help himself when he felt just _how many_ there were. Scars, dozens of them, all lined Reynauld's broad back like a lattice that threaded over one another, white with age and some thicker than Dismas' thumb. 

Were these from the crusades? Whatever happened to him, it was none of Dismas' business and he continued working to remove the scraps of armor.

Eventually, Reynauld groaned out a sigh, caught behind his bascinet visor, as he stripped away the last of his armor confines, exposing pale and red flesh beneath that rose with goosebumps against the mildewed, chilled air. It was… a bewilderment of crimson gore and muscle, and Dismas’ breath caught sharply.

“No, no,” he whispered. His hand automatically went to the tethering under Reynauld’s chin, scared of having to meet the man’s eyes but needing to all the same. “Please, _no_.”

Reynauld exhaled a ragged breath as Dismas shakily lifted the helmet from his shoulders, face dusty and eyes blackened from the force of the impact, or from the fall, or from Light-knows-what. Those crisp stormy eyes peered open at him, quickening Dismas’ pulse even further, then winced shut in pain as he coughed up blood that ran over his cherry cracked lips. Dismas quickly wiped it away, bare hands feeling strange against the man’s too-hot skin, against his broken lips, but there was soon more liquid red pooling in his mouth, so Dismas lifted the man’s head up on a stone. _Too hard_ , Reynauld’s expression grimaced up at him. So Dismas shifted, awkwardly, until Reynauld’s head rested against his knees. Reynauld’s expression settled, softened, head against his legs and eyes shut, until his breathing allayed to a near stop.

“Hey,” Dismas jolted when the man’s breathing seemed to slow to nothing altogether. “Reynauld. _Hey_.” Dismas grabbed Reynauld’s bearded jaw, cupped gentle but firm in his clammy hand, and tilted his head back to look up at Dismas’ dark brown eyes, intent. “Stay with me, Rey.”

Blue eyes fluttered open at him, at his words, and Dismas’ heart was in his throat for a moment. He didn’t want this man to die.

It’s not that he had never seen a man die before. No, while on the road, many a friend and enemy had died in front of his eyes, either by his hand or someone else’s. It wasn’t unusual to hold an ally as they passed, and even less so to witness a bloody death in general, slow or fast, light fading from their eyes, as a brigand, as a street urchin. Dismas had thought himself hardened to it, until he caused the death of two innocents. Until he held this dying Crusader in his lap, coughing up wine-colored petals and smiling sadly up at him with his last breaths, eyes crinkled. 

“Don’t look so upset, Dismas.”

_How can I not?_

“This is what redemption is.”

_Not for me._

“I wanted this.”

“ _I didn’t_.” He said the words aloud, harshly, hoarsely, hollow and terrible and true. He didn’t mean to, but he didn’t care. Reynauld looked somber at that, apologetic, and Dismas felt the Light-awful prick of something behind his eyes, something hot and wet, unsettled in the far reaches of his mind. He didn’t let that pain spill over, not yet. Not in front of Reynauld. Not ever, if he could help it.

“I know.”

“We should have left.”

Reynauld paused, swallowed back the blood, closed his eyes. “I know.”

That just pissed Dismas off more, hearing those words. So he had thought about it, too, thought about running away with Dismas to somewhere these evils didn’t exist. To somewhere they could maybe live differently, quietly, peacefully. Drunk, late at night, in the taverns or transepts, wherever. He had thought about it. They both knew that a Crusader never could turn his back on this, especially not Reynauld, but Dismas had thought for a moment that maybe -- maybe things didn’t have to end with this man dying in his arms.

“ _I hate you damned Crusaders_ ,” he said, because it didn’t matter. Not now.

He didn’t mean it. Of course he didn’t mean it, but it felt good for Dismas to lash out, to push those ridiculous bitter tears back, behind his cowl and angry brows, behind safety where he could scowl them away. Far from this man’s crinkled eyes and bloody smile.

“...I know.”

Dismas wiped away more red, wet and hot, from Reynauld’s mouth. Why hadn’t they taken Junia, who might have been able to get the Crusader back on his feet, standing and ready to charge headlong at the next evil threat? Why hadn’t they taken Para, who at the very least could have made this painless for Reynauld? For Dismas? Why hadn’t the highwayman known anything beyond basic first aid, if that?

Reluctant, he looked to the lacerated flesh, shining crimson and fresh and jagged in the torchlight, split open with thick muscles mangled from the giant rusted cleaver, exposed and stretched from his shoulder down his chest. There was nothing for a basic first-aid understanding to cope with here. 

“I’m sorry,” Reynauld spoke.

Dismas bit his lip, hurt and pissed and stubborn. “Don’t be.” More blood, more anger, more searing hot resolve. “I’ll drag you back to the surface if I have to.”

Reynauld laughed that deep, dark chuckle of his, the same sound that managed to fill Dismas’ bones and cloud his mind with nerves and hesitance. The flash of heat, of warm anticipation, felt ridiculous in the moment. It made Dismas choke on his next breath, lungs refusing anymore air. Made the wet stinging come closer to pouring over furrowed, angry eyes.

“Leave me.”

This man had made him feel so hopeful, so many times, and now he wanted him to abandon him? Abandon hope itself?

“ _No_.”

They had just felled the Swine King, ruler of these reeking catacombs of pig and human flesh alike, screeching and disease-ridden and hungry for their end, this was a moment of victory. Dismas refused to even consider it. 

“Dismas…”

“No. You helped slay this beast, more so than any of us.” Dismas finally looked to the fallen mass of the putrid Swine King, bowed over its own bleeding grey entrails and iron crown scraping rivets into the earth. Jingles seemed to be picking apart its loot and body, painfully obviously giving them space to… to what? Say goodbye? No. “I’m not leaving you to rot with them.”

As he said that, Dismas noticed someone approaching from the dark, and tensed for a moment, reaching for his knife. It was Alhazred, with his lit skull paving the path in the dark for him. His eyes still glinted red, demonic and unsettling, skull glimmering in the torchlight -- clearly still under whatever spell the void cast upon him, willingly so. Dismas curled his lip at the demon’s approach, but stopped when he noticed Reynauld’s eyes slipping shut, his breath hitching sporadically. “Rey, stay with me. _Reynauld_.” 

“ _He’s dying_ ,” Alhazred commented in that thick, otherworldly voice.

“No shit,” Dismas spat, heated and angry. His eyes pricked again, at his own words, at Alhazred’s somber frown, at Reynauld rattling out blood-bubbled breaths. His arms tightened around the Crusader, bitter, stinging. How many times had this man saved him from the nightmare Eldritch creations? He growled at Alhazred, as if daring him to suggest they leave. No. Dismas would carry him back, carry his corpse if he had to; he owed the other man that much, at least. 

He just didn’t want him to die. 

“ _Be still_ ,” the possessed man spoke in warbling tones, red dots within his black eyes flashing like minuscule stars. He had his hand raised towards Reynauld and Dismas reflexively reached for his knife again, face pulled in a tight snarl.

“Don’t touch him, _demon_.”

The thing that was Alhazred withdrew its hand and lowered itself so they were eye to hellish eye. When it spoke again, it sounded nearly human, more like the scholar that came to them the week prior. “I can heal him.”

Dismas stopped at that, eyes wide. _What kind of bloody trick…?_ Reynauld coughed wetly again, and suddenly Dismas didn’t care -- the man needed aid, and he was indifferent to its source. He relaxed, slightly, hand moving from his dagger to rest on Reynauld’s other shoulder corded tightly with pain, and peered up at Alhazred. “What do I need to do?”

“Just hold him still,” the Occultist smiled, almost menacingly with those eyes flashing red. “This might hurt a little.”

Before Dismas could protest, Alhazred surged forward, outstretched hand striking into Reynauld’s pale skin and digging his fingers into the barely-intact muscles of Reynauld’s chest. The Crusader cried out in pain and Dismas grabbed the man’s slender wrist, as if to yank him away from Reynauld, but stilled when he saw what Alhazred was doing. Slowly, so slowly, the snow-white skin blended into the blood-red sinew, mixing and clashing. _Reconstructing_. It was impossible, maddeningly so, but the flesh surged and fused together in front of his very eyes.

He wasn’t sure how long it took, but Dismas watched on in awe. Reynauld had still lost a lot of blood, but his shoulder was no longer a gaping wound, split from the tendons in his shoulder down to the muscles in his chest. The skin was whole, unmarred by neither harm nor hair, and Reynauld’s breathing began to even out. That irritating pricking came back, somewhere behind Dismas’ eyes, and he grit it back with a tight smile.

Eventually, Reynauld’s entire shoulder had been reconstructed.

Alhazred seemed satisfied with his flesh patchwork and withdrew his hand with a wet sound, and five beads of blood remained on Reynauld’s chest where his fingers had penetrated. They dripped, marring the new skin, and Dismas wiped at them with a huff.

“Why is he still bleeding?”

“My healing is powerful, but unpredictable and often comes with a cost,” said Alhazred as he wiped his fingers on the hem of his robes. “That’s nothing a simple bandage shouldn’t cure, though.”

A bandage. _Shit_.

Dismas worried at his lip, looking down at the blood still gathering in the small pricks. Of _course_ his actions came back to bite them in the ass -- but why couldn’t it have been Dismas that suffered the consequences of his greed instead of Reynauld? The Crusader had lost too much blood already and Dismas doubted he had much more to waste. 

Quickly, Dismas reached into his pouch, looking for anything that could staunch the flow. Gold, gems, antiques. His hand found the flask of whiskey, which he took out and looked at longingly. He had been saving the rest of it for when they made it back to the Hamlet, but Reynauld took precedence. Dismas unstoppered the flask, then looked around for anything that could double as a makeshift bandage. 

His neckerchief. 

It was all he had on him, so he yanked the cowl off and doused it in whiskey, voice low as he said, “This is gonna sting, but it should stop the bleeding.”

Reynauld hissed and clenched his jaw as Dismas pressed the wet material to his chest where the blood still dripped, then he snugly tied it around the broad shoulder, dressing the wound the best he could with such limited supplies. Satisfied, Dismas helped haul the larger man to his feet, unsteady and swaying, and nearly lurching them both back down under his weight. No way was he going to be able to carry the Crusader, so Dismas looked around for something to support him.

The Swine King’s crown. The prongs were nearly as tall as Reynauld was, so it would have to work. He sent Jingles -- who had picked up the smaller pig’s flag from the waste as some kind of trophy, for some reason -- to break off one of the crown spikes. 

Eventually, with the help of the large spoke as a crutch, they had managed to crawl from the pits of the Swine King, Reynauld blessedly alive but just barely. He didn’t seem moments from death’s door, thank the Light, but he still didn’t seem all there, much to Dismas’ concern. He was hot with fever and stumbled when he tried to walk without the Highwayman’s support, and despite being bare from the waist up he wouldn’t stop sweating _or_ shivering. Dismas gave him all the water he had, tried to give him their rations, but Reynauld refused. 

They backtracked their original path in an attempt to avoid running into more enemies down unexplored rooms or corridors. They were all exhausted and in no shape to fight, especially their valiant knight and defender, so when they finally reached a safe point in the Warrens, they made camp with their single campfire log.

Dismas pitched Reynauld’s tent and unraveled his bedroll for him, then helped him into it, away from the elements and the others still sitting around the fire watching them. Gently, hands steady, Dismas lowered Reynauld to the ground like he would with something made of precious glass, onto the thin canvas mat, worry knitting his brows as he examined the other man. A heavy sheen covered every inch of the Crusader’s chest and his face was twisted in agony, but still, he shivered. Absently, Dismas wished they had thought to bring what remained of his armor -- while forever unusable, it would be another layer of warmth for him, at the very least.

But they had nothing, their packs so laden with loot and empty of supplies.

Sighing, Dismas shrugged out of his fur-lined coat and whirled it over Reynauld, laying it over the majority of his muscled torso and tucking it beneath him where he could. His heavy coat would never fit the larger man, all chiseled brawn and corded might and a head taller than him, but it was at least enough to cover his chest and stomach from the cold, damp air. The shivers subsided some, but Dismas couldn’t find any joy in that.

Had he been brought this close to death the two times he passed out? Had Reynauld been forced to drag his near-corpse from room to room while Dismas shivered his warmth away? Maybe, but he didn’t think so. There had to be something else afflicting the man, something he had picked up from this Light-awful place. He slid his gloves off his hands and lightly brushed his palm to Reynauld’s neck, his cheek, his forehead. 

The Crusader was burning up with fever still, his breaths shallow.

They had to get him to Paracelsus. Dismas heaved another sigh and left the tent, putting his gloves back on and taking a seat by the fire next to the other two men.

“Does the holy man yet live?” Alhazred asked bluntly. His eyes had returned to their normal, dark brown surrounded by white instead of completely blacked out, the polished skull at his feet dull and unlit. Whatever powers that haunted him so were gone, for now, and they sat eating their rations, so Dismas grabbed his own since Reynauld had refused to eat his.

“Not unless we get him back to the Hamlet,” his voice was gruff, throat parched, as he bit into the hard bread and cheese. 

Jingles laughed and pulled out his lute, giving it a soft twang that echoed in the cavern they were in. “Relax, Highwayman. If your foul reek hasn’t killed him yet, nothing will.” Dismas frowned at the insult, but appreciated the gesture for what it was and finished his meager meal. Honestly, he was glad he had started working out again when he did -- their trek back from the Warrens carrying most of Reynauld’s weight had more than winded Dismas, and he didn’t want to imagine what the alternative would have been if he hadn’t been able to help support him.

“You two must be close,” the Occultist spoke carefully.

Dismas tensed, hunched over his gun that he had been polishing, and didn’t look up. “No. Not really. He saves my life, I save his. Simple as that.”

A laugh rang from the Jester who strummed his lute again. “Sure, and I’m positive you’d have done the same for poor ol’ Jingles had he been the one skewered on the Pork King’s knife.” Dismas had no response to that, so he just snorted and went back to polishing his weapons.

The three of them sat in the dark, warmed by the dying light of the campfire while Jingles played them ballads that were surprisingly soothing on their overtaxed souls. When the fire eventually went out, Dismas waved them to their tents and stayed up, back against the cold wall of the aqueducts. They were near the surface now and the interior wasn’t as weathered, the horrific squeals of the pig men long gone, but Dismas couldn’t relax.

So he sat up through the night, gun in his lap, nodding off and lurching awake every so often. He felt strange without his coat or cowl, naked and exposed. When morning came, or afternoon, or whenever the hell it was that everyone else emerged from their tents, Dismas jolted awake again, feeling stiff and irritable, but surprisingly shielded from the cold.

Atop him was his coat, still warm, fur collar lining slightly damp. _Reynauld_.

Without thinking, Dismas jumped up, coat falling to the ground, and tore through the Crusader’s tent -- then stopped short. He was sitting on his bedroll with his bruise-blackened eyes closed, looking haggard, but alive, deep in meditation. His chest was still exposed, save for the neckerchief tied around his arm and shoulder, and was wrought with so many scars that it made the highwayman’s head spin. He had been too panicked to take stock of them earlier, while rushing from the pits of death, but Reynauld’s body had seemed tortured save for the freshly sealed flesh at his left shoulder. 

Dismas slowly stepped in as to not alarm him, and felt foolish for barging in on the other man like he had any right to do. Aimless, he just sat down and crossed his legs, mimicking Reynauld’s posture and trying to figure out the trick to his rumination. It felt ridiculous, and he wasn’t sure what to do after that, so he just waited and let his thoughts wander. _Is this meditating?_ Dismas thought impatiently. _Who has time for this every morning?_ Eventually Reynauld cracked open his bloodshot, overcast eyes at Dismas’ fidgeting and smiled softly.

“Good morning.” 

Reynauld spoke in a broken voice and Dismas frowned at it, his own response laced with concern, “You’re up.”

“And you’re meditating,” Reynauld’s smile grew, and Dismas quickly moved his hands from his lap and leaned back on them instead, feigning a lazy composure and looking elsewhere. 

“No I’m not.”

His smile turned into a small chuckle, shoulders rising and falling, looking slightly less harrowed for just a moment, save for the dark purple bruises around his eyes and blood-stained lips quirked up. “You know, it’s far easier to see when you’re lying without your shawl covering half your face.”

Dismas furrowed his brows in irritation -- he hated feeling so exposed, and _it wasn’t a shawl_. “That’s what I get for tossing the bandages, I guess. And anyway, I _don’t_ meditate.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” A smile, a pause. “Especially not the brothel men.”

It was refreshingly playful, lighthearted, and made Dismas roll his eyes sheepishly, cheeks burning pink and nowhere to hide it behind. _Figures, the moment he’s feeling even slightly better, that’s what he brings up_. “Don’t make me regret saving you.”

His responding laughter was bracing, like a draught of dark ale against parched lips, but it soon whittled into convulsion with wet coughs shaking his whole body. He coughed into his fist, eyes squeezed shut, for what felt like minutes while Dismas waited impatiently, anxiously. When he finally stilled, Reynauld was hunched over with a new sheen of sweat covering his pale face and blood at his lips once more.

“Do you still have a fever?”

Reynauld lifted a bare hand to his forehead, thick brows furrowed. “I’m not sure. I felt well enough to stand upon waking this morning, but I don’t remember much else before that. I certainly feel like death, still.” 

“Yeah well, you almost were. Dead, I mean.” He had the vague urge to reach up and touch Reynauld’s clammy face, to check if he were still feverish. He didn’t, though. Maybe while Reynauld slept, unconscious from battle and sickness, could he dare to get that close, that personal, but now -- 

All reservations Dismas held fled him as Reynauld tried to get up, then stumbled when his legs failed and gave out from under him. He pitched forward and Dismas reacted, reflexes overriding any sense of decency that had given him pause, then caught him, harder than he intended, and felt the Crusader’s skin still scalding hot against his. It wasn’t over. Whatever he had, it still ailed him as he breathed laboriously against Dismas’ shirt.

“Shit, we need to get you to Para,” Dismas grit out, trying to steady the other man. “You’re burning up.”

Reynauld just nodded, eyes still squeezed shut, so Dismas all but dragged him outside and got to work taking apart the camp as quickly as he could. He almost just wanted to leave it there in his haste to get Reynauld to the clinic, but the damnable holy man insisted they return it to the Heir. Stubborn priest and his morality, even on the brink of death. Eventually, they were back on the road, walking as quickly as the Crusader could manage back to the Hamlet and away from the Warrens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story, in one of my files, I took this exact team to the Swine King and got a 0 heal with Reynauld on death's door, and the next turn, WILBUR killed him. I got the achievement and everything.
> 
> I was devastated. 
> 
> Originally, I was going to kill Reynauld off this chapter, but I sent the draft to my friend who is less of a beta at this point and more just someone texting me for new chapters every week, and they were LIVID. Like, blowing up my phone at 2am livid hah.


	14. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am really speechless at the feedback on the last chapter. It drove me to grind out another two chapters, so I'm beyond grateful and embarrassed for everything you all said. 
> 
> I've decided I'm going to give Kinktober an attempt -- since this is such a painfully slow burn -- but I still plan to keep updating Help Wanted every week. I really appreciate your guys' patience with this, though. 
> 
> Quick warning, mentions of drug use in this chapter.

**14\. Truth**

It was the day after their return, early morning sun caressing the horizon, throwing shades of pinks and oranges against the sky. The time when Reynauld would normally be up, saying his prayers and buffs, doing stretches and polishing armor, saving lasses and kissing babies. Whatever the hell a warrior of the Light did at the absolute crack of dawn. 

Dismas, on the other hand, was normally either dead asleep or about to be -- just not this morning. He had slept all he could after their return, after his rinse in the basin and heavy dose of liquor. After he bandaged his cuts, and after his bloody dreams that featured a new face, more gentle and masculine compared to the normal bouts of guilt-fueled nightmares but just as wrought with gore. When he awoke, slowly, groggily, he hadn’t felt much better than when he had gone to sleep hours ago.

Dressed without his cowl or coat, he threw open the door and stepped out, glancing at Reynauld’s room as he locked up behind him. 

The Crusader had been taken to Para’s clinic immediately upon their return. The Plague Doctor had appeared at the door, still in her nightgown, bleary eyed but intent, and got to work trying to break the man’s fever. She had shooed the rest of them out, refusing to let anyone in while she tended to Reynauld, and for a moment Dismas had thought to camp out in front of the clinic just to be ornery.

“If I didn’t allow the damnable Crusader in while _you_ were sick,” she had tutted at him while equipping her Plague Doctor mask, voice stiff and clinical. “Then why should I allow you in while _he’s_ sick?”

That had only been a mere hours ago, judging by the sun. Dismas wasn’t sure if he should risk getting chased out of the clinic again, but he didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go.

The Hamlet was quiet as he walked the familiar path to Paracelsus’, most of the town still asleep or otherwise decrepit and wasted. It was a large town, for being a run down hamlet, but most of the buildings had been abandoned from the looks of it -- Dismas didn’t exactly get out much these past two months. That gave him pause; he’d been here for over two months? It both felt like a lifetime ago and just yesterday that he and Reynauld were running for their lives from the Eldritch Shambler. Little did they know it was the start of something terrible, or something beautiful, maybe. Some strange friendship, a pleasant familiarity and a rare bond in battle.

As long as Reynauld survived this sickness.

Dismas arrived at the clinic and knocked, then entered when Paracelsus beckoned for him. The room smelled of antiseptic and tobacco smoke, and an exhausted Paracelsus sat back in a chair with her feet propped up on a bookshelf, no longer in her nightgown but now without her mask. Hopefully, that was a good sign.

“How is he, doc?” Dismas asked immediately. 

She waved towards an unoccupied chair for him to take a seat and didn’t immediately respond. Not a good sign.

“I’m fine!” chirped a voice from a bed in the corner, hidden by a curtain. It was in a familiar sing-song tune, and most certainly not Reynauld’s. The curtain yanked back from within and exposed Jingles, hatless but with his white Jester mask still on, and held up a bandaged hand. “Our lovely doctor is a miracle worker, but I’m heartened that you were so concerned.”

“That’s great, Jingles,” Dismas tried not to sound too frustrated -- really, he was glad that Paracelsus had managed to cure Jingles’ of his hemophilia. But that wasn’t why he was here. “Now where’s Reynauld?”

“Not here. And you shouldn’t be, either.”

Paracelsus had been very firm on not letting anyone stay in the same room with them while she was treating Reynauld for some potentially infectious disease. Which was ridiculous, as far as Dismas was concerned, considering he had just spent hours beneath the man’s staggering weight, carrying him back to the surface. But Para had been in no mood to argue. 

Reynauld wasn’t here. That gave Dismas a terrible sinking feeling and he asked, “Then where is he?”

“At the abbey.” 

She sounded as exhausted as she looked, like she knew Dismas was going to try and dispute it with her. She was right. “Why in Light’s name is he at the abbey?” The abbey was better than the cemetery, of course, but it was also the only place in the Hamlet that Dismas wouldn't be welcomed. 

“Because.” She uncrossed her ankles from where they were propped up on the bookshelf and stood up, bones popping as she stretched. “I’ve done all I can for him, and yet still he sleeps.”

Dread hit Dismas like a great weight, settling in his stomach and souring his mouth. He had dragged the man from the pits themselves, and still it wasn’t over. “Why?”

“Whatever beast you fought with down in the Warrens inflicted him with the ague. In mild cases, it’s nothing more than a fever and chills, some aches and pains, perhaps delirium on occasion.” Dismas went through the mental checklist of Reynauld’s symptoms the day before. _Check, check, and check_. “But in more serious cases, it can cause comatose or death.”

Chills crawled down Dismas’ arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “And you think the abbey can help?”

Paracelsus shrugged, like it wasn’t potentially life or death. Like they weren’t discussing their teammate’s mortality, _Reynauld’s_ mortality. “Who’s to say? We have a scholar that can talk to demons and a nun that can summon Light to her will. I’m not religious, but he is. I figured that would be his best chance at waking up.”

She said that as if he might _not_ wake up and Dismas felt his heart slip at the thought. They had vanquished the Swine King, Alhazred had healed his torn body, Dismas had carried him back to the surface; they had done everything to save Reynauld, and yet there was still a chance he -- what, would _die_? After everything they did to save him? _How was that right?_ Dismas ran his hand through his short hair, angry and frustrated and still mentally worn from their battle through the pigs. 

“So I have to visit the abbey if I wish to see him,” Dismas stated cynically. “Great.”

Jingles laughed out a ringing sound and said, “Don’t worry, Dismas, if they block you at the door, you can always come see ol’ Jingles.”

~~~~~

Dismas approached the building slowly, hesitant, neck craning as he looked up the looming towers of the church that pierced the sky ominously. Like the rest of the Hamlet, it was all but crumbling, spire steeples broken and some of the windows barred shut with wooden planks. Regardless of the disrepair, it was just as foreboding as he remembered the last one being.

He swallowed thickly, feeling especially vulnerable without his cowl or coat, but pressed forward through the huge wood doors. There weren’t guards to block him or saints to chide him, so he stepped within, past the entrance towers and down the nave. His steps echoed, one after another, slow and reluctant, until the room opened up to a huge altar of dust and chipped paint. Old pews lined the aisles and candles lit the transepts, giving the whole room an eerie atmosphere. It smelled of mildew and age, and through the few streams of light above, Dismas could see dirt in the air.

This is where Reynauld spent so much of his time? This holy pile of rubble?

It made him angry, strangely so. The thought of Reynauld bent low against these unwashed floors, praying for salvation day after day, and for what? To succumb to some malarious sickness that he reaped while trying to save this shithole of a town? 

_Feh._ He deserved better.

While clenching his jaw in anger and trying not to immediately storm back out, to dead streets and deader air, a man approached him. 

“Hello, friend. Have you come to repent for your sins?” he asked, and Dismas tried not to snap at him. He was a frail old man, or at least his deep frown and wrinkles suggested as much, with blond hairs growing from his temples and chin, but not the top of his head. A heavy-looking brown robe drowned his body within many tattered layers of cloth, with black clergy tassels hanging from his hunched over shoulders. 

“Not exactly,” Dismas bit back the scathing response he preferred to answer with. “I’m looking for someone.”

The man shook his head, frown deepening. “The Light is all you need to find, in these dark times.” It made Dismas’ eyebrow twitch up and he had no neckerchief to hide his scowl behind, so he didn’t worry about bothering. It didn’t seem to upset the old man.

“I don’t need your precious Light. I need to find my friend -- he was brought here this morning, I know he’s here.”

“If you reject the Light, then there is nothing for you here,” he said it forcefully, then pointed towards the door. Dismas felt his temper flare, but before he could say something that might keep him from Reynauld, he caught a familiar face and turned towards it.

“Junia, hey!” 

The Vestal had been walking down a hallway, bucket in hand instead of her mace, holy robes instead of her battle habit. She looked up and smiled brightly when she saw him, then came running over, sloshing some much-needed suds against the floor and pews as she did so. “Dismas! I’m glad you’re back!”

Vainly, Dismas pushed past the glowering abbot and was embraced tightly by the Vestal. It took him by surprise and she immediately let go and apologized. The man looked to her with disgust and asked, “Sister Junia, do you know this faithless heathen?” 

She looked between the two of them, anxious at the old abbot’s tone, and nodded. “Yes, Father. Dismas is one of the heroes assisting the Heir in rebuilding the town. He helped defeat the Necromancer.” He felt his ears burning at her verbiage -- specifically at being called a _hero_ , of all things -- but still gave the abbot a smug smile; maybe the self-righteous prick might show him a little more respect now. 

“I don’t care who he is, Sister. He is not welcome among these halls without first giving himself to the Light.”

Dismas wanted to argue with him. He wanted so badly to dig his heels in, to cause a scene and fall to blows if it came to it. These Light-lovers always brought out the worst in him and he almost took pride in his Light-deviance, but he didn’t have the time or patience to get into it with this priest right now. If playing their religious games meant that he could see Reynauld sooner, then fine.

“And how do I do that?”

The abbot didn’t even smile as he reached into his robes and drew out a vial of holy water, clearly prepared for this. “First, you must douse yourself in the divine water.”

Rolling his eyes, Dismas grabbed it from him and did so, then immediately felt the cooling effects of the holy buff washing over him. Maybe this stuff wasn’t so bad, but no way was Dismas going to stock up at the cost of his own coin, especially when Reynauld usually brought an extra vial for him anyway -- “just in case”, he would say. After a minute, the glowing feeling eventually disappeared and Dismas crossed his arms. Well that had been easy enough. “Great. Now what?”

“Then,” the abbot pointed a long, wiry finger at a confessional box in one of the transepts. “You must confess your sins.”

Dismas huffed, affronted. “But that’ll take all day!”

“All the more reason it must be done.”

Temper simmering, Dismas was nearly ready to just go and find the damn Crusader himself, without this holy crock’s permission or blessing, but Junia cleared her throat and said, “If I may, Father, perhaps Brother Dismas would just prefer to confess to someone he’s more familiar with? I would be happy to help guide him to the Light.”

The weathered man looked from Junia to Dismas, who was simmering and scowling freely, then nodded. “Fine. Go and do the Light’s work, Sister Junia. And you -- ” he jabbed his knobby, wretched finger at Dismas’ chest. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”

They broke away, but not before Dismas snuck a rude gesture to the old abbot’s back, then hurried down a long hallway. Junia had a victorious smile on her face, and Dismas patted her on the back gratefully -- he hadn’t expected the Vestal, of all people, to come to his rescue. “Thanks, Junia. I owe you a drink later.”

She laughed, breathless. “We of the Light aren’t allowed to drink, but thank you.”

Dismas raised his brows at that, thinking back to all of the drunken moments he and Reynauld had shared together. “Not even in moderation?”

“All forms of self-indulgence is a sin, Dismas,” she giggled as if he should know better. “Though I wouldn’t mind trying a bit of alcohol someday.” Her voice was wistful, as it usually was when she spoke of forbidden debauchery like having a drink or owning animals.

Huh. That was something he’d have to question Reynauld on, whenever the blasted Crusader woke up. They wound down corridor after corridor, and for a terrible moment, Dismas flashed back to the long winding hallways within the Warrens, decrepit and festering with swine filth and waste. It made him ill, remembering that horrific place, but he snapped back to reality when Junia stopped at a door. Dismas froze, suddenly very nervous as to the state of the man.

“How is he?”

Junia shrugged and bit her lip. “If there were any injuries causing this, my magic would have healed them by now. And Paracelsus gave him a tincture to rid him of his disease. By all appearances, he’s fine. Just… unresponsive.”

After a few deep breaths, Dismas eventually opened the door with a resounding creak and stepped inside. It was a dark, cobblestone grey room lit by various torches hanging from sconces that cast shadows against the floor. There were a few pieces of furniture in the room -- empty chairs, a basin, a bed. And in the bed…

Dismas stepped closer, looking at Reynauld’s quiet form laid prone beneath the crisp white sheets. The man was breathing, blessedly, slow and shallow, but otherwise didn’t move a muscle as Dismas walked to the side of the bed and peered down at him. His face had a pallor look to it, as white as the sheets and in stark contrast to his brown beard and eyebrows that framed his face. Sweat trickled down his forehead, despite how relatively cool the stone room itself was, and Dismas wiped at it with a gloved thumb. As he did so, he heard a cough behind him.

“Well, here he is,” Junia smiled awkwardly, then stepped out of the room. “If you need anything, us Sisters are always close by.”

With that, she left and closed the door behind her. Closed the door and left Dismas by himself, alone to stand over the other man and… do what? That jittery, panicked feeling started to grow in Dismas and he took a shaky breath as he pulled up a chair and sat next to Reynauld. What was he supposed to do now? He had been so eager to come here, to see the Crusader with his own eyes, so frustrated by that abbot that had seemed hellbent on stopping him. 

Now what?

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, which echoed in the too-quiet room. “Hope you’re enjoying your nap, you laggard.”

No response. 

Dismas continued, as if he could goad the man from his strange slumber. “You know, the last time _I_ passed out, it only took me a couple of hours to awake. You must really be milking this, Crusader.”

Nothing, not even a twitch, just that slow, methodical breathing. While shit-talking normally got Dismas pretty far in life, this clearly wasn’t one of those times. He watched Reynauld’s chest rise and fall, shallow but even, feeling impatient and fidgety. His knee bounced with pent up energy and he looked around the room again, as if to make sure they were alone, then turned back to Reynauld.

“They said you were fine, Rey,” Dismas mumbled, leaning his elbows on his knees, bent over and morose. He wasn’t sure where the nickname came from, but in the privacy of their room, of his own mind, Dismas savored it; he’d have to be more careful when Reynauld was actually awake to hear him. “Para said she cured your ague, and Junia healed your wounds. So why?” he leaned back, frustrated. “Why won’t you just get up? I did everything I could, Rey,” his voice grew agitated, echoing in the small room. “I carried you to safety, I got you help. I came to the abbey and covered myself in _holy water_ for fuck’s sake, just to come see if you were okay. To come see _you_.” 

Dismas scowled at nothing, at everything, and shook his head. “I had no idea you spent your mornings in such a shithole. I promise I’ll do what I can for you, for this town, if you just _wake up_.”

He didn’t. Dismas sighed -- insults and bargaining weren’t getting him anywhere, so he drew his deck of cards and shuffled them. “Fine then. Fancy a round? It’s not like I can play with anyone else, anyway.” He dealt the cards between the two of them, laying them on the hard mattress next to Reynauld.

It was ridiculous, and soothing all at the same time. Repetitive and familiar, dealing the cards then playing the hands in silence. He played for Reynauld, and eventually sat back with a smirk.

“You’re even better at this asleep than you are awake,” Dismas chuckled. 

They continued like that for a while, until the lamps burned low and Dismas had to request new ones. He was in the middle of shuffling when he cleared his throat, tired of the silence. “So what is a man of the Light so ashamed of that he needs redemption on the Old Road this badly?” he mused.

He didn’t get an answer, of course, but that didn’t stop Dismas.

“A scorned lover, perhaps?” he suggested. “Or even… adultery?” Dismas paused and thought about it, then shook his head. “No, I doubt that. A man like you, so enriched in Light that he’s the fucking sun himself? You’re faithful to a fault, Rey.”

A flick of his wrist dealt out a new hand for them both, all face up so Dismas could play Reynauld’s hand for him. “Did you sleep with the wrong woman or something? Did her daddy run you out of town with his guns blazing?” He laughed quietly and shook his head again. “That sounds more like me, actually. Who knows if your blessed scriptures even allow you to lay with a woman. Or do you do that in _‘moderation’_ , too?”

A new hand, a new win. Dismas shuffled and dealt again. “No, knowing you, it was something completely unconventional and unexpected.”

More silence passed as they played, all one-sided, until a strange thought occurred to Dismas. “Were you ever a family man, Rey?” He pondered on that, tried to imagine Reynauld with a wife and child. The image fit, and if anything it seemed more surprising that the Crusader hadn’t settled down somewhere.

_There’s nothing to go back to._

That unsettled Dismas greatly. He couldn’t be sure if that’s what the man had meant back then, but if so, then what had happened? And why did Dismas care?

He decided to change the subject, more for his own sake than the Crusader still passed out and unresponsive on the bed. “I never really had a family, not even as a kid.” He wasn’t sad about it, not really. It was more a fact than a sorrow at this point, and explained, “I had a mom, yeah. She was a brothel girl, though, so I rarely got to see her, and never had any clue who my dad was. Nothing that hasn’t happened to a million others.”

It was why he had grown up a street rat, picking pockets and stealing food. It was why he had gotten so good at hiding in tiny spaces and lying through his teeth. Dismas had to avoid the lawmen and the flesh peddlers alike, and it was something he eventually excelled at.

“I guess it’s why I fell in with the brigands at an early age,” he reflected. It’s not like Reynauld _needed_ to know any of this, or that he ever truly would, but it felt good to put out there so he continued to ramble as he played his one-man poker game. “I was actually a candlestick maker for a while, can you imagine that?” He laughed darkly at that. “Most parents coddle their children and tell them that they can do anything. Not mine. My ma, she told me I should be a woodworker or candlestick maker, said I was as talented as a pile of bricks, the old cow.”

He sighed, heavily; this wasn’t anything he had ever told anyone. It had never been relevant, never been important, but it was cathartic getting it out in the open. “So I tried it, thinking it would make her happy.”

Shuffle, break, deal. On and on, mindless and relaxing, for he couldn’t say how long. Honestly, he had never had such a rapt audience before, and more than anything, Dismas wished he had a drink to accompany it.

“It didn’t, and eventually she died. From _syphilis_ , of all things. So I turned to brigandry, convinced I would be better at it than wicking candles.” He cursed as he lost that round. “See, we can’t all come from some noble birth and upbringing, like you clearly did, Crusader, with your damned poise and discipline. Whatever terrible fate befell your supposed family, it’s surely nothing that hasn’t happened to a million others, too.”

Dismas sounded cynical, bitter, even to himself, and he hated that. They played in silence for a while longer before Dismas had to order a new lamp. How long had it been? He wasn’t sure. After a time, he got bored and put the cards away in favor of sharpening his dirk and cleaning his flintlock pistol. They had left Reynauld’s longsword in the eye of the pig, down in the Warrens, so he’d have to get a new one upon waking and quite honestly, Dismas could use new weapons himself. Their pockets were overflowing with gold from the expedition so maybe he could splurge on a set, maybe some nice gloves, or at the very least a new coat and cowl…

Reynauld’s breathing picked up, harshly, and he spasmed, chest rising off the bed. Dismas jumped to his feet, panicked, watching the man seize and wondered if he should go fetch a Vestal or if he should try again to wake the man. 

“Rey,” he gripped the man’s shoulder and shook him, lightly. “Reynauld, _hey_.”

Eventually, the shaking subsided and his breathing returned to normal, along with Dismas’. _Fuck_ , how long would the Crusader put him through this? He settled back into his chair, keeping his hand on Reynauld’s reconstructed shoulder, the skin pale and stark against the contrast of his red leather gloves. Slowly, Dismas pulled off his glove and returned his hand, feeling the cold, clammy skin beneath his finger tips that he trailed down the man’s chest. 

He didn’t know what he was doing; he didn’t care. It felt… nice. Unguarded. Slowly, Dismas let his walls fall, not really sure what he was feeling but not hating the tingling in his fingertips from their contact. They had touched before, plenty of times.

This felt different.

A knock at the door startled him and Dismas retracted his hand as if it had been bitten, as if he had been caught with it in the damned metaphorical cookie jar. The door opened and Junia appeared, her tan face etched with concern as she looked between the two.

“Visiting hours have long since ended, Dismas.”

He shrugged, realizing that he really didn’t care for the arbitrary intervals they allowed him to see Reynauld, and didn’t budge. “Duly noted.”

“Dismas…” Junia fidgeted in the doorway. “I have been sent to escort you out.”

Dark brown eyes met hers intensely, brows furrowed. “And you can tell whoever sent you to feck off. I ain’t leaving.”

She seemed to consider that, then walked towards him. Dismas tensed, expecting her to drag him off forcibly -- a battle he would not let her win -- but instead, she wrapped her arms around him in another hug. He stiffened uncomfortably, then patted her arm; Junia was far more forward and affectionate than anyone else Dismas had met from the chantry. He enjoyed it, almost.

“I’ll convince them you left, somehow.” She pulled out her purse from her robe and slipped out a ration, which she handed to Dismas. “Here, take my share. I’ll return in the morning with more.”

The morning. So an entire day had passed, nearly? Dismas gave her his thanks and opened the ration, like he told himself he would stop living off of once, recently. She smiled at him and headed back towards the door, then stopped and turned around. “He’ll survive, you know. I can feel it.”

Dismas nodded absently at that -- of course Reynauld would survive, Dismas didn’t even bother to consider if he wouldn’t. 

She left the two of them alone together, again, only this time Dismas felt a quiet peace that came with it instead of vibrant nerves putting him on edge. He resigned himself to a night spent folded in the chair, a night of aches and pains, so long as he didn’t have to see the holy man before him spasm and hitch his breath from whatever invisible suffering he was experiencing. 

Hours passed, probably, and Dismas paced and talked, stood and sang ballads, sat and recited whatever he could remember of Beowulf and Alice in Wonderland. Regrettably, it wasn’t much anymore, but it was enough to eventually lull him to that tender place between dream and waking, eyes drooping shut and hands falling still.

…

He wasn’t sure how long he had slept, but a knock at the door made him jolt upright, blinking blearily at the visitor. 

Junia.

Already? Had he really been here overnight, singing and sleeping off and on? After years of disuse, his singing voice was terrible, but with Reynauld fast asleep still, Dismas couldn’t care less and had been singing anything from heroic bloody odysseys about a man who flew too close to the sun, to weepy tales of star crossed lovers torn apart. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, “Is it morning already?”

She nodded and smiled softly at him. “If you don’t mind coming out here to eat, I want to try healing Reynauld once more.”

Dismas got up quickly -- or as quickly as he could in his sore, sleepy state -- and waited outside while Junia worked her magic, nibbling at the meager meal of meat and cheese she kindly brought him. She came back out, eventually, shaking her head at his hopeful eyes. Nothing. He tried not to deflate too obviously, but Junia still patted him on the shoulder and said, “He’ll wake up when he’s ready.” Dismas nodded absently at her comforting words, even though he didn’t much believe them himself. “In the meantime, it doesn’t hurt to keep talking to him.”

With one last gentle pat, Junia left him there once more, alone with Reynauld’s silence.

…

"How long are you gonna make me wait, Rey?” Dismas complained. He was sad and listless, frustrated. Sleepy and bored, antsy. It had been another day of this, and Reynauld just lay there, face unafflicted and body still as he slept on.

“I'm not a patient man, you know.”

Silence.

Dismas stood up and paced about, trying to calm his nerves. The longer this went on, the less sure he was that the Crusader would wake up -- his fever had blessedly broken the day before, so why wouldn’t he just open his bruise-blackened eyes? 

He did some quick pushups, some stretches and hastened breathing techniques that did nothing to abate his anxiety or the oppressive silence in the room, so Dismas continued to ramble. For his own sake. “Do you regret staying? No, probably not. You're too good for that. Regret is a sin and all that, right?” Dismas thought back to the day Reynauld had said that, to how impenetrable and stonewalled he seemed when he spoke those dark words; the Highwayman could never feel that way and said as much.

“Wish I were like you,” he chuckled humorlessly. With Reynauld being comatose, he felt bold enough to put this to words -- it didn’t make them any less permanent, but at least Dismas wouldn’t have to deal with the repercussions immediately. “Heroic and selfless. You know, the fucking paragon of Light and virtue that likes to sin under the table? Heh. It’s what makes you tolerable, at least.”

At this point, Dismas didn’t mind the quiet. Not while he rendered his heart open like a pathetic lass with a crush. He still lowered his voice, though, and stilled his pacing when he softly added, “Perhaps a little _more_ than tolerable, even.”

It had been hard for him to ignore, especially after watching the man nearly bleed out in his lap the days prior. The strange clench in his chest, the way the Crusader was the first thought Dismas awoke to in the mornings and the last thought he succumbed to at night. He had been irritatingly, hopelessly besotted by the holy man since their encounter with the Shambler, though at first it was out of mere morbid preoccupation. Reynauld was made of thicker stuff than Dismas, that had been obvious from the start, and Dismas had resented it.

Then, somehow, Reynauld believed that he was someone of equal measure, that Dismas was more than he really was, and that shifted something in their dynamic.

It shifted something in Dismas.

That small blossom of _something_ between them had turned into a fixation, most likely an unhealthy one since that’s all Dismas was capable of anymore. Always wondering when the other shoe would drop and Reynauld would realize Dismas’ true worth, of nothing more than an undignified thief and drunk.

But really, it seemed that whenever the opportunity arose for Dismas to disappoint him, he’d surprise himself and would do something… _good_. Every chance he had to run away, to save his own skin and leave this nightmare Hamlet far in his past as if it were nothing more than a fever dream, Dismas didn’t. It surprised him, but it never seemed to surprise Reynauld. That irritated Dismas, too.

“Do you ever think about that night? With the Shambler?” he asked to nothing. He knew the other man did; how could anyone not be haunted by the writhing tentacles and blood-drenched skin?

No response. Not that he expected one.

“After my last night as a brigand,” he always danced around the word ‘murder’, even in his mind, when he thought about that night. _Red splattered windows, bright weepy eyes, lifeless. Youth gone too soon._ “I never thought I’d consider myself virtuous again.”

He walked to the bed to stand over Reynauld, shoulders hunched and face solemn, and felt the strange urge to touch the other man again. He didn’t.

“You make me _want_ to be, though.”

It wasn’t that Dismas had never been enamored before, taken by a passing beauty or captivated by the occasional man in armor. He had plenty of lovers in the past, some of whom had left a permanent spot in his heart, like a scab healed many times over, so this overwhelming affection for Reynauld wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility. Truly, Reynauld was attractive, valiant, intelligent, good-natured, undoubtedly _sexy_ in too many ways for Dismas to deal with. On top of that, he had saved Dismas’ life multiple times, so it made sense, all things considered.

But… 

He’d have better luck trying to charm the Caretaker into his bed. 

Still, it was hard for Dismas to care for the consequences when he had been a fool for lesser things. He had been sure that he would drink himself to an early grave with nothing left to live for, after his crimes, and was living job to job, payout to payout, only alive for the drink and vice his gold bought him while he ran from his bounties and his past. 

“That’s where you found me,” he spoke, still softly, and still alone. “When you stood between me and the Shambler. I had been ready to die for nothing.”

And the worst part was that it happened again, and again. Reynauld would stand up to both Eldritch mysteries and the blackest parts of Dismas’ mind, staring down unholy terrors that threatened Dismas’ resolve every time. It was a strange friendship, and it gave Dismas purpose -- even worse, it gave him _hope_. The damned Crusader was hope personified. 

“It’s why I need you to live, Rey,” his voice was now a whisper, like he was afraid to say it. The way he needed the other man, and how, even if for just a moment, Reynauld needed him too. Dismas hadn’t felt needed for the longest time. 

It wouldn’t last, Dismas knew, and he’d be sorry when it ended, when one of them was gone. And with the monstrosities they were expected to fight, week after week, trying to purify this sinking ship of a Hamlet, it would probably end sooner rather than later, this uncertain but comfortable companionship. Either with their deaths or with something Dismas ruined by his own hand, inevitably, when he stopped living up to Reynauld’s standards. 

But he had gotten this far and it was more than he asked for, more than he hoped for, really. He’d take his chances to enjoy it for just a few months more, if Reynauld would allow it.

“Guess I’m pretty taken with you, priest,” Dismas sighed. 

So he carried a torch for the other man. So be it. It felt good to be honest with himself, finally. Well, actually no, it really didn’t. It felt like taking a hot knife and carving himself vulnerable. But lying to himself about it and throwing all of his highly skilled mental gymnastics at the painfully obvious truth had only seemed to exacerbate the fixation. Maybe now that he could get it off his chest, could Dismas finally move past it and focus his affections on someone more realistic, more receptive. Someone who would reciprocate, at least.

Eventually, he plopped back in the chair, physically and mentally exhausted from sundering himself bare to the ugly truth. _His_ ugly truth.

A few more hours, or dozen hours maybe, passed like that, lamps burning low enough to cast haunting shadows on Reynauld’s sleeping face, until eventually another knock on the door brought Dismas out of his quiet reverie. Junia, looking ever concerned, entered the chamber with a fresh lamp and said, “You really should go back to the tavern, Dismas.”

He grunted in response; there wasn’t anything for him in this Hamlet that he cared about more than what was in this room, quiet as a corpse. Her hand fell on his shoulder again, and squeezed comfortingly -- Junia was awfully touchy for a Light-bespoken nun.

“Are you worried he’ll wake up while you’re gone?”

_No._ Dismas was worried he wouldn’t wake up at all. He shrugged, keeping his thoughts to himself, and said, “Not like I really have anything else to do around here.” Which was the truth, and not an excuse. Well, not _just_ an excuse, anyway.

Junia laughed a pretty sound which echoed in the small room pleasantly, a nice change from the hours of silence Dismas was adjusted to. “Nonsense! Para’s been asking about you these past few days, along with the Heir and that funny little butler of his. Even our impious scholar questioned as to both of your physical states. Sir Reynauld has to stay under our care for the time being, but you don’t, Dismas. It might help your sanity to take a break from this room.” 

It wasn’t a bad idea -- he could use a bath and a hot meal, or at the very least a _drink_ or three -- but Dismas wanted to reject it anyway, though it didn’t seem like Junia was asking him at this point. He stood up on creaking knees and popping joints and turned to her, resolute. 

“If he wakes up -- ”

“You’ll be the first we send for,” she gave him a distressingly knowing smile, and Dismas had nothing to hide his flushed face behind. He needed a new cowl as soon as possible if he were apparently this easy to read. Some con-man he was.

He nodded, gathered his gloves, weapons, and cards, took one last frustrated look at Reynauld’s still form, then stopped and reached into his buttoned shirt. Within one of the inner pockets was his lucky coin and Reynauld’s knight crest, from when they had gambled together. Slowly, flustered in front of the Vestal’s watchful eyes, Dismas pulled out his lucky coin and placed it next to Reynauld.

Satisfied well enough, he thanked Junia and left. As he walked down the long nave of the abbey, body stiff and aching and footsteps echoing loudly, Dismas noticed someone sleeping in the pews. A pale man, swathed in a tattered green cloak, tossing and turning restlessly. He appeared to have manacles at his wrists and a wretched scar had been burned into part of his face that stretched up to his partially bald head -- what, an escaped convict? He muttered in his sleep, sounding completely disturbed, and Dismas made a mental note to ask Junia about him later.

When he stepped into the refreshingly almost-dirtless air, sunlight dying and fading to a twilight blue behind the horizon, Dismas realized he had spent almost three days within the dust-ridden cloisters, singing and babbling to a near-dead man. With nothing more than rations, poor sleep, and silence to keep him sane within the transepts. Junia was right, it was high time Dismas tried to relax and unwind, take his mind off the horrors of the past few days, and walked the familiar path back to Paracelsus’ clinic. If anyone knew how to help him, she could. He knocked, and when she opened the door, she was without her mask and smiled kindly at him.

“Hey, Para. Still got any of those mushrooms?”

~~~~~

Junia had been more than right -- she had been a _genius_. 

Dismas marveled at the world, at the colors and lights, high and drunk and achingly _alive_ all at once. He and the Plague Doctor nibbled on her Light-awful mushroom experiment from the Weald, then made their way to the tavern where drinks flowed freely with the hard-earned gold of his last expedition. 

On their way in, Dismas had glanced at the brothel. He hadn’t been back, and didn’t intend to, not after his last encounter, far too embarrassed and too prideful and too shaken with worry that he wouldn’t be able to perform again. He was sure his reputation had been unsalvageable among the whores, not that he could be bothered to care at the moment. Guess his whoring days in this town were over until his heart-aching sickness for the unattainable was gone.

The night reeled and spun in that favorable way and Dismas was all drunken laughter and shameless grins.

Eventually, they had the idea to invite the Heir and Jingles, both of whom accepted with varying levels of enthusiasm. Even Alhazred, static and serious Alhazred, joined them with his strange shisha and indulged in his heady, foreign opium-laced tobacco.

“This particular _argileh_ is quite expensive to import, you see,” Alhazred spoke through his smokey exhalations. “But well-earned after purging the Hamlet of the Swine King!”

Dismas agreed, all mirth and festivity, and the five of them drank deeply and smoked freely. When Junia stopped by to peek inside at all their sin and smiles, claiming she wanted to speak with the Heir about a new visitor of theirs, Jingles instead dragged her by her robes to join them. As the night lived on, they drew attention from many others and even the Caretaker came cackling up to their group. 

It was nice, and it took Dismas by surprise. He sang with Jingles, both at the top of their lungs and horribly off-key. He teased Junia and whispered dirty jokes in her ear until she blushed and gasped and giggled, gambled precious gems with the luckless Caretaker who’s cracked smile never ceased to stretch his face in two, even as he lost game after game. He smoked with Alhazred and drank with Para and danced with the Heir, clumsily, heedlessly. All they were missing was --

_Reynauld._

He swallowed, thickly, feeling his feckless mood dampen. Jingles had jumped on Alhazred’s back, Junia had her holy book open and was impishly reading something to the Caretaker who howled with laughter. Paracelsus was trying to bribe the Heir with something most likely home-concocted for his stress and insomnia, and Dismas…

Dismas needed another drink. He wasn’t sure how far into the night they celebrated and after a certain point, he didn’t care. 

He was afraid to be alone with himself having been alone with Reynauld for so long. 

At the very least, drunken revelry posed a diversion for his tangled thoughts and heavy worries. He wanted Reynauld there, alive and full of mirth and untouched by the terrors of the Warrens. Wanted him there to chastise Junia, to roll his eyes at Jingles, to eventually unwind after a few drinks as he always did, laughter free and smiles easy and face warm as he looked to Dismas. 

Wanted those glinting metal eyes staring at him from across the table while the Heir chatted with him, distracted, wanted those forbidden implications of Dismas’ fantasies hot and heavy in Reynauld’s blown-wide pupils. He wanted shared smiles, private, secret, as they spoke of the monsters they fought, of the trials they survived, of the weather, of the fucking verses even, anything. He wanted soft touches and gentle hands as they led each other upstairs, as he helped lay Dismas to bed, and after that, he wanted --

“Dismas?”

Junia poked him, bits of dark auburn hair peeking out from beneath her headwrap and falling against olive skin, loosened from their motley debauchery. Blessed interruption, a much needed diversion. He smiled at her, at the beer she was handing him, and thanked her.

“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?” she whispered, which Dismas was grateful for. And of course, she was right on the money.

“Yes.”

He had meant to lie, and shocked them both with his honesty -- Junia just smiled and hugged him again, something Dismas wasn’t used to but wasn’t completely appalled by, not by her anyway. He hugged her back and smiled against her sweaty dark strands, then threw back the frothy beer and rejoined in the drunken banter. 

It wasn’t what he expected. It wasn’t even something Dismas had wanted, not at first. Even now, he doubted this, doubted all of them, and doubted his place among them. For so long, Dismas had been fine without a family, without a team, without the vulnerabilities that came with trusted companionship. But he looked to Junia, still smiling at him sweetly with a patient understanding. Looked to Paracelsus, who somehow seemed to know what Dismas always needed better than himself. Looked to Alhazred who had saved Reynauld, who didn’t glance at Dismas with disgust when he had left Reynauld’s tent shaken and with tear-glossed eyes. He looked to Jingles, who was quick with a joke and a limerick and a distraction for their sanity, looked to the Heir who was just a kid trying to right his wretched uncle’s wrongs. 

He hadn’t wanted this, bonds to tie him down and keep him from fleeing at a moment’s notice. It had always been easier for Dismas to avoid making friends and meaningful connections when he had one foot out the door.

But that door had closed the moment Reynauld had asked it of him.

Later, with Paracelsus in his lap, cheeks red with much needed laughter, looking vibrant and youthful instead of worried and tired for once, and with Jingles teaching the Heir how to poorly play a lute, with Alhazred pretending to read Junia’s future with tarot cards -- divination is a sin, but is that really my love card? she had asked with concern -- Dismas couldn’t regret this.

It was yet another cold, hard truth that he had to live with.

They would all die, Dismas included, and most likely sooner than later facing these Eldritch creations, but he couldn’t regret this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just write 7,000+ words of Dismas mostly talking to himself? Yes, I did, and I apologize.
> 
> It's super self-indulgent crap that I couldn't stop myself from writing but at least he's being honest with himself now? And his new roster family?


	15. Hostility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I've been at odds with this chapter for a while. You could probably skip it and be fine sos

**15\. Hostility**

The next day hit him hard, as was to be expected. Honestly, Dismas was surprised he had even woken up in his own room -- most likely the work of Paracelsus or Junia, bless them. He all but rolled out of bed, muscles still sore and aching from his time spent at Reynauld’s bedside, still wound tight from their fight for their lives against the Swine King, but surprisingly free of a harsh tension he felt before last night.

He cursed himself and his vices, then swore to wake up early enough to resume his training. Not as early as Reynauld woke up every day, of course, the holy madman --

Dismas stopped. _Reynauld_.

Hastily, Dismas threw on his clothes, still reeking of beer and the pungent opium shisha from the night before, and headed out the door. When he descended the stairs, Dismas saw the wretched old Caretaker, still seemingly drunk and laying on a bench. He meant to hurry past him, but the Caretaker hiccuped a greeting to him.

“Top o’ the afternoon, Dismas,” he giggled. “Your kindly lady friend stopped by some hours ago.” 

That stopped Dismas in his tracks and he turned to face the drunken man. Did he mean Para? Junia? “The lovely little Vestal,” he confirmed with his unsettling grin that Dismas was starting to think was affixed that way. “She comes bearing news that your holy man has risen.”

Dismas’ eyes widened -- Reynauld had awoken from his coma? He thanked the Caretaker and bolted, outside and to the street, then down the quickest route to the abbey. Heart racing, his legs pumped what little energy he had to spare and then some, down the cobblestone roads and took to the abbey stairs two at a time. Guess this would have to count for his morning run, he thought as sweat beaded down his back and his side cramped painfully, protesting every movement until he managed to throw the doors open.

The inside of the chapel was brightly lit from the midday sun this time, reflecting the motes of dust as they fell through the air around him and were disturbed by each breathy exhale as Dismas caught his wind. Candles and incense still burned, leaving the room smokey and spiced. That scarred man from the night before still sat at the pews, head bowed, and the yellow-headed priest of frowns stood near the confessionals, but Dismas had no mind for them.

Ahead, at the altar of filth and grime, was Reynauld, on his knees and hunched over in prayer with smoke and dust haloing him. 

Dismas swallowed his heart in his throat and let the doors swing shut behind him, painfully loud in the quiet abbey. Reynauld didn’t stir, so Dismas stood there, awkwardly, cheeks flushed from his flight and heart-pounding at the sight of the Crusader, alive and well enough. He waited for him to finish praying, or tried to anyway, but the sweat was pooling on his skin, chilling him, and he couldn’t seem to get a deep enough breath, so he restlessly took a step forward.

It echoed sharply against the stone floors and Reynauld roused at that, back straightening and moving haltingly until he stood upright. Slowly, he turned to face Dismas, a shocked stare parting his lips on his weathered face.

Absurdly, it took Dismas’ already-shortened breath away, catching in his chest which swelled with the strain of it. Dismas swallowed again, hoping to steady himself, but he just took another step until his legs moved forward of his own accord. No longer in his heavy armor and mail, no longer shirtless and bloody, Reynauld was garbed in a modest robe that hung heavily, not unlike the abbot’s that Dismas had run into the days before who still watched them with a frown from the side. It looked far better on the Crusader, Dismas thought distantly.

“ _Thank the fucking gods_ ,” Dismas breathed.

The abbot coughed his displeasure at Dismas’ choice of words from the side, but he didn’t care. It was enough to grow Reynauld’s weak smile into that wondrous chuckle, sending relieved goosebumps down Dismas’ neck. He felt drunk again, and grinned widely back at the Crusader who smiled in all the dust and smoke.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

It was stupid, it was so ridiculous and absurd that Dismas couldn’t help but laugh. The man had been incapacitated for, what, over five days? His hope incarnate, comatose from wretched malaria, laid out and pale and withered in a bed while Dismas watched on helplessly. At least when Dismas had been blacked out after the Shambler encounter, it was for a couple of days tops. And mostly because Paracelsus had kept stunning him with her blasted grenades to abate his pain, not because he was on the brink of life and death.

Reynauld stepped down from the altar like a god of sin and Light and stood before Dismas, gaunt and bedraggled, but alive.

“With how pale you are now, I might as well have.”

He winced, touching his face. “That bad, huh?” He chuckled and shrugged, then dug in his robe for a moment and eventually reached out with a clenched fist that opened to show -- Dismas’ lucky coin. _Guess it still has some luck to it, after all_. His eyes flicked up to Reynauld’s, which were crinkled in a soft smile at him. “I believe this is yours. Though I appreciate you letting me borrow it.”

“Yeah.” Clearing his throat, Dismas grabbed it and shoved it back into his inner shirt pocket, next to the rolled-up Knight’s crest he kept on him at all times. “Sure thing. Just don’t expect to need it again any time soon.” 

Reynauld looked to the surly abbot still glaring at them from the side and asked, “How did you manage to get inside?”

Dismas shrugged nonchalantly. “Con artistry.” 

Again, that broke a laugh past Reynauld’s chapped lips, but he began to cough and Dismas reached a hand out, concerned, but remembered their boundaries. The Crusader was awake now -- Dismas had refused to take any liberties while he slept, and he refused to do so upon waking. Eventually, the fit passed and Reynauld looked faint, swaying slightly on his feet.

“C’mon,” Dismas frowned with worry. They were out of the woods, it seemed, but Reynauld still needed to recover. “Let’s get you some food. My treat.”

…

The trip back to the tavern, plus their meager breakfast of eggs and toasted bread, was mostly spent catching Reynauld up on what he missed while he was comatose -- and considering Dismas had nearly been isolated for the entire time, it was a short conversation. He tried not to allude to just how much time had been spent at the Crusader’s bedside, for his own dignity, and instead changed the subject to the scarred man he saw asleep in the pews.

“I saw him, too,” Reynauld mentioned with a slight frown at his chapped lips. He had bread crumbs in his beard, which had grown long and wild in the time he spent bedridden, and he scratched at it with irritation. “Though I didn’t like the looks of him.”

Dismas snorted at that, finishing off his shit coffee with a single gulp. “You didn’t like the looks of me, either, Crusader.”

Reynauld grinned at that, black eyes crinkled. “Not sure if I’ve changed my mind yet.”

_Feh. Get some food in him and suddenly he thinks he’s hilarious_ , Dismas thought with a roll of his eyes, then playfully kicked the other man beneath his table and gathered his things. “You should get your eyes checked then, old man.” 

“My eyes are fine,” he muttered, levity gone from his face as he clenched and unclenched his hands stiffly. “It’s everything else that’s still lacking.”

Dismas lowered his gaze, unbidden memories of the red pooling in his lap from the other man, tainting his hands as he wiped Reynauld’s lips and cheeks free of it again and again, futile. It poured free of his dying body and the Crusader’s breath had hitched its crowning countdown. He had been sweating in Dismas’ arms, he remembered, skin hot to touch, blistering with fever, and the memory made his stomach clench uncomfortably.

“Yeah, well, being out for five days will do that to ya,” Dismas’ mind was still unsettled by the involuntary images it summoned, so he didn’t immediately catch the shock Reynauld was struck with until he heard it in his voice.

“ _Five days?_ ”

He froze. Had they not told him? Judging by the appalled look on Reynauld’s face, they hadn’t. Why wouldn’t they?

They left the tavern after that, and Reynauld pointedly declared that he was going to head to the Heir’s to speak with him privately. It was an insinuation, loud as any, that he had planned to talk to the Heir alone -- which was fine, sure -- but Dismas very pointedly arranged in return to walk him there and back. If Reynauld had any objections, he kept them to himself with a dissatisfied look and squared his shoulders, and they walked down the cobblestone streets together.

“Careful,” Dismas spoke offhandedly as they passed uneven terrain. Reynauld snorted at that, so the Highwayman shut his mouth, not saying another word until they arrived.

The Crusader’s steps up the stairs to the manor were halting and unstable, and though Dismas eyed him warily, he didn’t move a muscle until the other man made it inside, then bent and plopped against the stones by himself. Truthfully, he himself was exhausted after days of looking over Reynauld, piled with a massive hangover as if a cherry atop of his aching bones and brittle disposition. He hadn’t mentioned that he had stayed however many nights -- nearly three, but he wasn’t counting -- at the holy man’s bedside, and he vaguely hoped that no one else would mention it, either. Something about Reynauld knowing that unsettled him, and he cared not to consider why.

The others in the Hamlet were growing on him like mildew, and not just because they had smoked and drank and commiserated alongside each other. For some reason or another, they were all cut from the same cloth, forged from the same shellshock trauma, married to the same end, their railroad spines bent and heavy with a life poorly-lived and a past that tore at their minds and begged for redemption. Dismas still wasn’t even sure what ‘redemption’ called for, but his mind flashed to the Crusader’s bloodied lips, smiling and weeping away his life.

“ _This is what redemption is._ ”

The suicidal maniac. If he wanted so badly to give his life for his sins, then the damned Crusader shouldn’t have fought so hard to preserve Dismas’. 

After too long a time had been spent in silence, waiting for Reynauld to finish up whatever business he had with the Heir, Dismas suddenly heard voices from within; loud, angry voices, mostly belonging to Reynauld. It put the Highwayman on high alert, instinctive but irrationally so, until the words beyond registered through the thick doors of the manor.

“I will not be coddled!”

The Heir muttered something in response, something beyond Dismas’ sense of hearing, but it seemed to do nothing to abate Reynauld’s fury. “I’ve been out for too long already! I don’t need rest, I need to _fight!_ I’ll wear a training set if I have to -- ” Dismas winced at the tone and the words, knowing just how terribly bullheaded the zealous man was more often than not, and was suddenly very glad that he hadn’t tried to worm his way inside with the Crusader. This must have been why so many people had avoided telling Reynauld the truth of his illness and how long he'd been out for.

“It is my command that you rest! That’s an order, Reynauld,” the Heir finally raised his voice, just barely, just enough for Dismas to hear past the doors, which flew open a few minutes later after the manor returned to silence.

Dismas stood up immediately, noting the frustration lining Reynauld’s face, and tried to act like he hadn’t just been eavesdropping. It mattered not, though, when Reynauld grit his teeth, reached the bottom of the stairs on unsteady legs, and turned to Dismas with a furrowed brow and pale pallor. “The Heir wants me to take the week off,” he spoke as if it were some dire punishment. Dismas didn’t disagree with the kid -- Reynauld needed more time to recover, more time to get his strength and dexterity back that were so obviously lacking after so many days as an invalid -- but he would never say as much to the other man. 

They returned to the tavern with a heavy silence settled between them, and Dismas couldn’t help but worry.

~~~~~

The next few days were easy going for them as Reynauld recovered and Dismas had felt relatively content, for someone living in a town threatened by Eldritch creations. He had gone back to his normal training regimen to sharpen both his skills and his body, and was out target practicing with his precious spare ammo when he saw Junia approaching the edge of the arena. She waved at him, all smiles, and Dismas decided now was as good a time as any to take a break.

“It feels like you’ve been training non-stop, Dismas,” she chirped and handed him her canteen filled with water -- much to Dismas’ disappointment. Not that he should expect anything harder from their holy sister. “I know you want to best Sir Reynauld in skill, but don’t overdo it.”

He shrugged and took a swig gratefully. “I’ve been slacking long enough s’all.” 

That was true, but it wasn’t exactly _the_ truth, per se. After Reynauld’s near-death, and Dismas coming to terms with his own inner turmoil regarding his newfound family, he realized he needed to work harder to keep them safe. He didn’t _ask_ for the burden of having people he semi-cared about, but now that they had all wormed their way into his meager affections, he didn’t want to let anything happen to them. Unfortunately, he didn’t even know if he could keep himself safe, much less anyone else, but seeing those gunmetal eyes losing their light as the blood pooled in Dismas’ lap… 

It haunted him, and Dismas would do anything he could to keep that from happening again.

Junia didn’t need to know that, though, so he handed back the canteen and was reloading his gun when she continued, “They’re planning to leave within the hour, you know.” Dismas knew; he just didn’t want to think about the Warrens expedition the others were being sent on. 

They had new visitors in their squalid Hamlet, two new living wrecks of human beings that were in hunt of redemption or bloodshed or riches, whatever drove those broken and bare to the Old Road. Those woebegone sods like Dismas and Reynauld, like Junia and Paracelsus who had all been running from something with nowhere to run to. They were a motley bunch, to say the least, a patchwork of class and skill that somehow came together to do good. 

Or to kill, however one wanted to look at it.

Their first arrival was the man Dismas had seen in the abbey, despondent and shriveled in on himself with chains hanging from his manacles and a deep frown on his harrowed face. He told the others that he was an abomination, which was a little too melodramatic for Dismas’ taste, but it seemed to mean something to those of the holy cloth who writhed at his mere existence. His name was Bigby, and he was reluctant to join them -- and likewise, Junia and Reynauld seemed reluctant to have him. His movements, his words, his entire being reeked of self-doubt, of barely bridled violence that was made worse by the manacles and chains that bound him. 

“It’s best if I don’t. I’ll only hurt someone,” he had said after Junia was forbidden by the abbots to speak with him. “At the very least, your party would only be stressed with me in it.”

Yep, too dramatic. It instinctively set off those strange new, protective alarms Dismas held for everyone, for Junia and Para and even Jingles and Alhazred, to an extent. But the Heir all but ordered Bigby’s assistance on their expedition if he wished to find sanctuary in the Hamlet. That made Dismas even more unsettled that he wasn’t to accompany them to the Warrens, sent to hunt and butcher more of the pig-men that still skittered down the halls, eating and reproducing without a King to lead them.

The next recruit was a woman, a Hellion, who had arrived while Dismas was hopelessly crouched in the transepts, playing his cards and serenading a motionless Reynauld. Boudica was a wild thing, tall and thick as a tree, and supposedly stomped off the stagecoach with her giant glaive resting on her broad shoulders. 

“Where might I find the nearest hearts to feast upon?” she had yawped at the Caretaker, who merely giggled into his hand and pointed to the manor. 

Like the rest of them, her history was unknown but clearly brutal and savage by how she bared her teeth and threatened with her fists at any who came near. Her red hair was up in a long tail and shaved on the sides of her head and she had a bright blue line of paint streaked down the right half of her face, from her hairline, down over her eye and to her strong chin. She was amazonian and beautiful, but Dismas feared for his extremities should he ever try approaching her. Strangely enough, he noticed the way Junia’s eyes also followed the other woman, the way she chewed her lip every time Boudica flexed her muscles or bellowed foreign phrases, and it strung those mental alarms in Dismas all the tighter.

There had been sightings of more filthy pig-like entities creeping to the Old Road and the Heir arranged for another expedition to abate them. Reynauld was the first to insist his place at the front of the line, of course, but it was a pretty unanimous decision to have him sit this one out, especially when Paracelsus deemed him still recuperating from the ague that continued to plague him with fatigue and chills. That woman was not one to be argued with.

Instead, the Heir had arranged for Jingles and Bigby, to which Alhazred volunteered in lieu of Junia with his strange, inhuman healing prowess. While trying to settle on a fourth person, Boudica had shoved her way to the front with her vast shoulders and a ravenous grin.

“There will be blood?” she asked in a heavily accented voice. Dismas wasn’t sure where she was from, exactly, but English didn’t seem to be her first language. 

The Heir paused, as if to give it thought, then nodded, “Most definitely.”

She puffed out her chest, her wicked smile framed by the furs that adorned her collar frilled around her neck. “AH-KLORAAA, send me to the fiends, then!” There was no disputing that, and regardless the Heir couldn’t very well be choosy with his few recruits thus far, especially with Reynauld unable to take the lead, Paracelsus being needed in the Hamlet for the man’s malaria treatments, and Dismas not-so-subtly hanging back as well. Boudica at least appeared to be capable, the way she swung her heavy glaive back up to her shoulders -- the weapon was longer than she was tall, and came to a deadly axe head, but she handled it as if it were an extension of herself.

...Which just left her, Bigby, Jingles, and Alhazred. 

Dismas gathered up his weapons, still without a coat or scarf, and together they walked to the center of the town where their eclectic teammates had gathered, and Junia prattled on to fill the silence as they drew closer. “Sir Reynauld has made a rather speedy recovery, no?”

He gave her a lukewarm, skeptical look and spoke, “He was out for almost six days, Junia. If you ask me, the damned wastrel has taken his sweet time healing.”

She laughed at him, a sweet knowing laugh accompanied by an equally knowing look that irritated Dismas to no end. Fondness framed her face, kind as ever, with her auburn hair pulled back and obscured beneath her typical Vestal wrap and hood. In Dismas’ opinion, it was far too lovely to be hidden away, such that it was, having seen her let her hair loose both metaphorically and quite literally. 

That night in the tavern, brought together in a fellowship borne of their mutual concern for an infirmed teammate, had changed the five of them, solidified an unspoken bond that Dismas hadn’t adjusted to and he tried not to flinch when Junia swatted his shoulder playfully.

“Para said it could take two weeks for him to fully recover, at least. You know that as well as I do.”

“So she said,” he grunted, scanning the small group of people in the town square for the Crusader as they approached. He wasn’t there. “But I had assumed that to mean two or three days in Reynauld-time.”

Her smile shifted slightly, sad and patient. “Sir Reynauld is still a mortal man, you know.”

“I know.” 

Now more than ever, Dismas knew that Reynauld could be felled like any man. It might take a hell of a lot more effort on the part of their enemies to bring the man to his knees, with his iron will and Light-fueled fury, but it had happened. In front of Dismas’ eyes, bled white in his lap, then all over again in the too-quiet transepts while Dismas watched helplessly.

Dismas could still feel the blood on his fingers, hot and sticky and wrong, as he wiped it from Reynauld’s lips.

“In the chantry, we’ve always been taught that those lost to a slumbering sickness can hear the prayers of those who visit them,” she said wistfully, like a child speaking of a great idyll fantasy. “Perhaps your words made it through to him after all, Dismas.”

He froze -- she hadn’t mentioned _that_ when she encouraged him to talk to Reynauld. “I pray not,” he muttered back and cursed his foolish ramblings that ran his mouth of their own accord while they had been alone together. “For his own sake.”

When they reached the group, Junia left for the abbey while the others on the expedition adjusted their trinkets and provisions -- with what looked like enough food rations to feed a small army -- and Dismas hung back, out of the way. The Heir oversaw them, looking tired but resolute, more so than Dismas had seen of him so far; after nearly losing Reynauld, the kid seemed to be taking these expeditions more seriously. That gave Dismas some comfort, at least, that they weren’t his toy soldiers to be thrown away on a whim. 

Eventually, the Heir perked up and waved at something behind Dismas, and when he turned around, he saw Reynauld and Paracelsus walking towards them from the direction of the Plague Doctor’s clinic. 

Reynauld was looking healthier every day, thank the Eternal Flame and whatever else above the man worshipped, the light returned to his eyes and the color returned to his face. After a week on a primarily liquid diet, his cheeks seemed gaunt and hollow and cut with lines when he frowned, smiled, spoke. Now, he was garbed in a new tunic, white of course, with billowy sleeves that sloped at his forearms and gathered into leather vambraces, whose length was drawn tight with a belt at his waist. It was new, and flattering, but it wasn’t what drew Dismas’ attention.

The blasted Crusader had trimmed his beard. Not entirely shaved, but he had cropped it short enough that it almost resembled… 

_Gods._ It echoed the fashion that the brothel worker had worn his beard in.

Dismas felt his throat dry, his eyebrows knit and eyes narrow suspiciously at him. This Light-awful man, holy in all manners except those involving Dismas apparently, was never going to let him live that day down, that moment when their eyes met and they mutually froze. When the hallway flooded with silent implications, accusations, questions and non-answers. Deflections and diversions, what Dismas was best at.

And the shorter beard looked _good_ on him. _Fucking fantastic_ , even, or so Dismas’ sex-starved mind told him. 

Reynauld raised a thick eyebrow when he drew close enough to notice Dismas’ staring. His time lain destitute in the walls of the abbey hadn’t done him many favors, nor did his sickness and near-death recovery. Now, Reynauld had lost that buoyant look about him that he always held when he looked at Dismas, lips normally quirked upright like he was keen on something he shouldn’t be, some shared inner joke that Dismas hadn’t caught onto yet. Instead, they were set in a firm line. Hard to read as ever.

Before Dismas could clear his throat and force a greeting, Jingles came bounding up to them in his bells and cloth and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead theatrically. “Sir Reynauld, fresh from your leeches and bedpans to come bid us farewell!” the Jester jeered and Reynauld rolled his eyes. Despite their newfound pact in the face of the Eldritch eradication, the Crusader still had little patience for Jingles’ barbs and derision. “I’m absolutely touched, _messire_.”

Boudica hefted her glaive in the air and gave a barbaric cry which startled them all, then loudly proclaimed, “Prepare the bar and brothel for my return, young whelp!”

The Heir started, then nodded quickly. Dismas just chuckled, hands in his pockets as he watched them finish their preparations. “A woman of my own heart,” he muttered, mostly to break the silence between him and the Crusader. The silence continued despite his efforts, though, but now Reynauld’s tired, stony expression was focused on the group ready to depart.

Shortly after, they hefted their packs and said their goodbyes, and Dismas and Reynauld watched them disappear beyond the bridge to the Old Road. 

“I should be out there,” Reynauld finally spoke, voice hard and forlorn.

_No, you shouldn’t_ , Dismas wanted to say. He bit his tongue, though -- it’s what everyone else had been telling him, chidingly, and apparently it only grew the angry shadows on Reynauld’s face. Instead, Dismas just nodded, feeling too exposed without his normal layers to buffer him. “I know how you feel.”

And he did. He knew exactly what the Crusader was struggling with, the helpless anxiety of watching others he cared about go risk their lives. For the Hamlet. For _them_. Dismas wanted nothing more to stay by the people he gave a damn about and see to their safety. To ensure it, to know for himself that they would still live. 

Yet, that’s exactly what he was doing by staying behind. He had probably been hovering around the Crusader far more than he was welcomed lately, constantly observing his pallor and his gait, ready to run for Paracelsus at any moment -- which was apparently pretty conspicuous and not at all appreciated. Dismas had become increasingly watchful over everyone, but especially him, so a week-long break would be nice for their sanity and he said as much.

The shadows grew on Reynauld regardless, anger lining his handsome, scarred, freshly trimmed face as he turned to Dismas, words harsh.

“ _I_ wasn’t given a choice.” 

It hit Dismas hard, in his core, scathing and blindsiding, the connotations clear between them. The shameful coward Dismas truly was had been more than happy to stay behind, but this new part of him that cared for others, it was restless, anxious, and agreed wholeheartedly and recoiled from the caustic implication. “You think I _enjoy_ staying behind?”

Reynauld turned to him fully now, his clenched jaw easily visible beneath his shorn beard. “I think you _enjoy_ getting to laze about for a week.”

He was wrong. He was so fucking wrong that it wasn’t even funny, though Dismas laughed humorlessly anyway. More than ever, Dismas was acting for the good of someone else, for someone besides himself, and now that very person looked to him with scorn in his beautiful eyes. It stung, it wrenched at Dismas’ heart, but he knew exactly whose safety he was ensuring by staying behind, the ungrateful bastard. He knew Reynauld wouldn’t see it that way, so Dismas averted his eyes and scowled his lips.

“Yeah, _fine_ , I should have gone with them. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Then why would you choose to stay?” came the biting response, sizing Dismas up for exactly what he was. He didn’t know how to answer that, not without throwing himself under a carriage, so he bit his tongue and stayed quiet.

Paracelsus turned immediately, tutted, and came to Dismas’ defense with a steely voice to match Reynauld’s apparent mood. “ _He_ wasn’t given the choice, either, for your information.”

They both bristled at her intervention -- Dismas had been ready to be flayed alive for his cowardice, eager for it nearly, and Reynauld seemed ready to deliver the blow. Anger and frustration laced his words, either at Dismas or himself or the situation. But instead, their Plague Doctor squared her shoulders and pointed her beak to the both of them, disappointment like a tangible propinquity between the two men.

“And even if Dismas hadn’t been told to stay, _I_ would have discouraged him from joining after the week he’s had watching over you.” Her voice was almost gentle now, but Reynauld seemed to flinch from her words as if they slapped him. Dismas diverted his eyes, mortified -- watching over Reynauld was a secret he planned to take to the grave, and Paracelsus outed his pandering lunacy as if it were nothing. Really, he didn’t need Paracelsus defending him, not when he felt the same discontent that was clearly boiling over in the other man. 

“You’ve both faced down and survived more than any of us,” she crossed her arms over her chest and Reynauld wilted, thoroughly admonished. “So the Heir ordered each of you a week of rest. If you have an issue with that, Reynauld, then take it up with your holy Light.”

She left them there, tense and silent, as she turned back to her clinic. Dismas still averted his gaze from the other man, hands still fidgeting in his pocket -- yeah, sure, he had faced down the Shambler, the Necromancer, the Swine King. He had stayed semi-awake for days at a time, fretting in the disquiet abbey, fine, okay. But it gave Dismas all the more reason, the more urgency, to go out and spare others from the same horrors. He didn’t blame Reynauld for hating him for staying, and in fact -- he _welcomed_ it.

Sighing heavily, Reynauld closed his eyes and shook his head, looking pained instead of angry now. “I’m sorry, Dismas. I was taking out my own frustrations on you.” 

Dismas had forgotten how scathing the holy man could be when he wanted to and shrugged off his apology. It’s not like Reynauld had been wrong; the Heir should have sent someone more experienced with their fare of demons than two total strangers with Alhazred and Jingles. More guilt for him to throw on the pile, to shrug off for later, to drown in wine or whiskey. He needed a distraction, a deflection. They both did.

“Don’t worry about it. You feeling well enough to spend some gold?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent so long editing this chapter that it became about 11,000 words, so I split it into two for my sanity. I'll post the remainder Friday after I've finished editing that half.


	16. Rapture

**16\. Rapture**

His idea had been intended to help Reynauld with his post-sickness depression, but really, a day to shop around was exactly what Dismas needed as well. His threadbare coat was torn badly at the cuffs and bloodspattered from both his own and Reynauld’s grievous injuries, and he was excited to upgrade his weapons finally. He could also use a new pair of gloves, he thought with a stifled excitement. Reynauld had to lead him throughout most of the town, as was expected since Dismas hadn’t actually ventured out and explored much these past months.

What he hadn’t expected was the absolute ruination of the town. 

Honestly, having seen the state of the manor and the abbey, Dismas _should_ have expected it, _should_ have known that the town was in shambles. Dismas had seen some shithole towns before, but nothing that had seemed so hollowed out and decayed at the very foundation as their Hamlet. Adults and children alike lay about the street, covered in filth and flies and asking for scraps, their blank eyes staring down at their bare feet, one after another. The shops were mostly closed and abandoned, and the ones that remained opened seemed seedy and disreputable. The few homes that appeared to be lived in still suffered from broken windows and dry rot, and some of the wooden ceilings had caved in entirely.

Reynauld seemed unfazed, acclimated, but Dismas swallowed hard and tried not to breathe through his nose, tried not to catch someone’s eye, tried not to be heedless of where he stepped in the streets of muck.

_This was the town they were so desperate to save?_

He wasn’t sure if he had said it out loud, but Reynauld was stiff, adamant, when he spoke, “This town is much more than it seems.”

Dismas didn’t believe him, not at first, but as they walked the various streets, he watched Reynauld approach nearly every person who crossed their path with casual conversation. “How have you been holding up?” he inquires of a man with a bandaged leg, and to an old woman behind a blood-stained veil, he crouches down and asks, “What ails your children today?” 

They spent much of the afternoon like this, Dismas standing back and trying not to appear too bleak as he watched Reynauld tend to stranger after stranger, in the shops and on the streets. Many of them seemed familiar with the Crusader already and left with a smile or a prayer for him, and one half-starved child in particular left with a meager ration. It was sad and terrible, and brought Dismas back to his childhood where he would have sooner sliced the fingers from a holy man’s hand and taken the ration himself. 

But slowly, it brought back the glint of light in Reynauld’s eyes, and Dismas would suffer through hours of this to get that back.

Until his leg was seized by something -- some _one_ \-- and forced him to stumble to the hard ground. Dismas cursed and looked up, wiping at a new cut on his cheek from the gravel or broken glass on the stones, then immediately felt ill when he saw the bloodied man caught onto him, blood-stained hands clawed into his pant leg and red teeth gleaming at him. For just a moment, Dismas froze, flashing back to the Shambler with its rotted mouth and bleeding skin, twisting around his arm and gouging his flesh open like a dozen iron brands. 

The crimson man crawled towards him, his nearly bare body cut and bleeding in too many places to count, eyes hidden behind an unwashed hood, his grisly grin ravenous beneath the fabric. The closer he crept, the more that heady copper stench enveloped Dismas, who gagged and slid back, away from the deranged smile and red fists and open wounds.

“ _Shhh_ , I do not attack you,” he whispered, voice nearly soothing if it hadn’t dripped red in the dirt as he spoke. “It is the Light that seeks to purify you, and it falls to me to guide you back to It.”

His soiled hand reached out, longingly, as if to touch Dismas’ bleeding cheek, and his broken grin spread wider, but Dismas finally managed to breathe through his shock and smacked the dirty limb away, roughly. The broken man faltered at the hostility that Dismas bore him and his fingers twitched, inhuman and unwelcome in their want. 

“Get the hell off of me, sod,” Dismas growled, sliding back even further and reaching for his gun, but the bloody smile never faltered from the minced meat lips. His gruesome hand hung in the air between them, wordlessly asking for permission, though Dismas still scowled in return.

“Resist not the burden, brigand,” came the eerily calm, gravelly voice. “For I will guide you better than any compass.”

A foot came up and kicked the man in the side, throwing him off of Dismas who was struggling to grab his pistol at his hip. Reynauld stood there, still garbed in his cloth tunic but looking as intimidating as ever with his hard frown and prominent brow knitted with fury. “ _Begone_ , Flagellant, lest you wish to be exalted by my hands once more.” It was dark, threatening, and gave Dismas chills. This same Crusader who gave gold and bread to strangers on the streets seemed both capable and more than willing to end this bloodied man’s life with his bare hands.

“Whose will is more righteous, Crusader?” The smile finally left him and he frowned deeply up at Reynauld, a snarl, challenging. “Unlike _you_ , I fear no burden.” It seemed to strike something in the Crusader, something that gave way to violence, and Reynauld grabbed the man by his tattered hood and yanked him up.

“Your blasphemous bloodlust offends the Light, heathen,” Reynauld growled. “Count it a blessing that I am without my holy sword that I may finally smite you down with.”

Again, Dismas had forgotten how cruel the man could sound, until a coughing fit suddenly hit him, hard, and he had to drop the Flagellant back to the ground who just howled with red laughter. "Your will to fight falters, Crusader."

Dismas grabbed Reynauld by the arm and pulled him back, away from the raving lunatic laughing and bleeding in the dirt. Reynauld was still wracked with coughs and tremors, paler than ever, and Dismas looked him over with worry -- maybe bringing him out in the not-so-fresh air hadn’t been a good idea after all. Behind them, the mad Flagallent still roared his blistering prayers at their backs. 

“Feck off, lout,” bit Dismas scathingly as he led Reynauld away.

Eventually, Reynauld recovered and composed himself, not looking at Dismas as he said, “That man has been haunting these streets for weeks now, goading people into lashing him.” He shook his head and ran a hand down his face, exhausted. “I fell for it last time.”

Remembering his bloodied mouth, stretched to a carnal smile, made Dismas shiver. “Isn’t he one of your guys, though? One of you holy Light-lovers?”

Reynauld scoffed, mouth turned to a derisive sneer at the mere question. “He is a fanatic, and a dangerous one. His kind is regarded by the chantry with a toxic mixture of fear, awe, and disgust.” Dismas tried not to draw parallels between the two men, not the least of which was their eagerness for blood and death in the name of the Light -- either their own or that of others -- and kept his mouth shut. He didn’t even try to understand their religious politics or hierarchy; generally, these holy men all hated the likes of Dismas regardless of their sect, so it was all the same to him. With one recent exception, anyway.

“‘ _Fear, awe, and disgust_ ’, huh? We could always use more of that on the team.”

It was a casual suggestion, joking with a slight serious note, but Reynauld shut that down immediately. “His madness and self-flagellation brings only despair to others. He’s worse than even a sinner.”

“Worse than even _me_ , you say?” Dismas cracked a smile at the abashed look on Reynauld’s face, glad for something other than the angry frown. “You wound me, Reynauld.”

The sheepish expression eventually softened into a smile, then a low chuckle. Dismas liked that far more than the impatient anger Reynauld had been simmering with all day, wound tight from the lingering sickness or the departed expedition. It reminded him too much of their first encounter months ago, before they grew to almost enjoy one another. Grew to depend on each other and more. “My apologies. It’s nothing personal.” 

“I'll try not to weep into my pillow tonight,” he smirked, then switched gears to something that had been bothering him since they left the homeless Flagellant howling laughter to his blood moon. “So what did that guy mean when he said ‘unlike you, he fears no burden’?”

The fragile smile left Reynauld’s face, and Dismas could have kicked himself. “Hmph. The fool takes pride in bleeding for his sins.” It was a non-answer, and the master of self-lies knew a deflection when he heard one which should have stopped him there. But if there was one thing Dismas didn’t know how to do was to stop before he said something shitty. Before he made an idiot out of himself as usual.

"And you don't?"

 _Tactless as ever, Dismas_ , he thought when he saw the frown cut back into Reynauld's gaunt cheeks. His voice held past hurts and seemed distant as he answered, "Not particularly. My father bled me enough for them as a boy."

That stopped Dismas in his tracks as the words sank in, clicked, materialized in the form of pearl-white lines that he hadn’t meant to see when he carried the Crusader to safety the week prior. The memories of Reynauld’s checkered back, cut with a litany of scars all crossed and recrossed, flayed with desultory precision came unbidden to Dismas’ mind and left him horrified. Like a lattice of brands, maimed into his skin by his own father. Dismas had been flogged plenty as a child, by his wet nurse, flesh peddlers, law enforcement, even by lovers on occasion. 

Not like this.

But that hadn’t been for Dismas’ eyes, so he swallowed his horrified questions, his disgusted anger like bile in his throat, and said nothing. It was no wonder Reynauld was so God-fearing if the fear of God had been seared into his back enough times to leave those scars. His chest and stomach had marks, sure, but it wasn’t the inhuman weaving of pain that had obviously been whipped into his back. Dismas had few flagellation scars of his own, cut spitefully into his skin from his one visit to the penance halls, so many years ago, so he knew that white-hot pain that left someone blank and mindless and sobbing for atonement. 

He had been an adult and paid for the treatment himself, though, brought to desperation by his heinous crimes, not a child whose own father inflicted such mind-numbing pain unto him.

Reynauld kept walking, and so did he, thick silence between them. And to think, Dismas had been mocking him for having a ‘noble’ upbringing compared to him while Reynauld was asleep. Now he had even more reason to hope that his words had fallen on deaf ears, and forced indifference into his voice when he finally asked, “ _So_ , Reynauld. Junia says sometimes the comatose can hear what’s happening around them. While they sleep.”

The other man didn’t blink, didn’t even look over, and just said, “Is that so?”

“Yep.” Dismas waited, and fidgeted, and waited even longer for the man to say something, anything. He didn’t. “Did you?” Dismas finally prompted.

At that, Reynauld stopped and turned to him, and Dismas wholeheartedly regretted asking. That teasing smile ghosted his lips, turned up at the corners within his freshly trimmed beard. “Perhaps. If I had, what would I have heard?”

It was Dismas’ turn to look away, brows furrowed, restless. Another non-answer. It was their typical dance, back and forth, like they were back in the sparring ring.

“Nothing. Just some really bad singing is all.” 

Reynauld laughed and Dismas savored it, but they were interrupted by someone calling out to them -- the Heir. The blond man was in front of an old, empty building that looked just as foul and intimidating as the rest of the bedlam surrounding them, but he had a large smile on his face as he gestured to it.

“I’ve decided to reopen the sanitarium!” 

Dismas gave him an unimpressed look, then shrugged and tried not to sound too sarcastic. “ _Great_. An asylum for the sick and deranged. That’s exactly what this town needs.”

He wasn’t wrong, per se, but the Heir shook his blond locks at them and turned to look at the decrepit, possibly haunted, barely-a-building before them. “I had the idea when you and Jingles came back sick from the Warrens, Reynauld. We’re lucky that Paracelsus was able to cure you both, but now we won’t have to solely rely on her. And they even have patient cells to commit people to convalesce. Who knows? Maybe someone could even come out of this place a better person.” 

_Count me out_ , Dismas wanted to say, eyes trailing up the building. It would take time and money to reopen, but that didn’t seem to discourage the Heir, who had bags under his eyes and no longer wore the expensive finery that he had been wearing when he hired the two men for this long ago. The clothes he wore were fresh and washed which stood out well enough from his denizens, but were otherwise plain and unadorned. 

“It would save space within the abbey,” Reynauld commented, voice thoughtful. 

“Exactly!” the Heir exclaimed, then began to walk with them to the blacksmith. “The front line of this war is not in the dungeons themselves, but rather, inside the _mind_.”

“You sure about that, kid?” asked Dismas, immediately remembering all of the Eldritch horrors they had fought up to this point, and however many more to come. “Pretty sure that Shambler we fought would disagree.” That made him stop and reconsider the Heir’s plans; the worming pile of flesh and eyes and teeth still haunted his mind, that was for sure, but no way would Dismas so readily admit to that. 

The Heir was not deterred, but instead went into an excited chatter about all of his plans for the Hamlet, repairs and expansion and upgrades, and his passion was infectious. Soon, Dismas and Reynauld were both nodding, agreeing to keep their eyes out for any upgrade materials or blueprints or anything else that might aid them while on their next expedition.

It was a refreshing change of pace and left Dismas with that Light-awful hopeful feeling again. If nothing else, he secretly wanted that dismal, Flame-forsaken abbey cleaned and repaired. 

For Reynauld’s sake.

“If I’m going to risk my life, I’d rather it not be for a shithole,” Dismas commented, glancing at the neglected church and it’s crumbling spires in the distance. He noticed the Heir wilt at his comment and quickly added, “What I mean is, I’m glad you’re invested in this place. I want it to be worth the trouble of saving.”

"I've decided that I'm going to put up more 'help wanted' posters in the neighboring towns, too," mused the Heir. "Hopefully they draw in more heroes, like you two."

Dismas and Reynauld looked at each other, then away. There was that damned word again, ' _heroes_ ', fitting for the likes of Reynauld, maybe, but not him. They eventually made their way to the blacksmith, a gruff-looking old man with a tobacco pipe protruding from his large, scruffy beard. He greeted Reynauld kindly enough -- they seemed to be on pretty good terms, which made sense with how often the holy man upgraded his armor -- but looked Dismas up and down with a raised bushy brow. 

“Unless you’re here for plate and mail, the tailor’s _that_ way,” and gestured with a thumb. 

_Hmph_. With that kind of cheek, it’s no wonder Reynauld was chummy with him. Dismas took out his knife and bit it into the wooden workbench so that it stood upright between them, then said, “Unless you’re too good for my coin, I’m here for upgraded weapons.” The old blacksmith smirked and grabbed the knife from the table, examining it from hilt to tip.

“Aye, but nicking my table will cost you extra.”

He rolled his eyes but agreed and put in an order for a new pistol and knife, then paid and waited for Reynauld to do the same -- new chain and plate and a long zweihander. The total order would take a week to complete, apparently, and the Heir stayed back to discuss potential upgrades to the blacksmith’s facilities. 

They did end up stopping by the tailor, since Dismas needed a new coat, cowl, and gloves and Reynauld needed a new tabard for his armor. As he was looking at some of the thick padded coats, Reynauld strolled over and eyed the canvas material critically. 

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer something… sturdier, for the gold you're paying?"

Dismas shrugged. It wasn't a question he got very often; even his old brigands didn't care much if he could mitigate damage, so long as he could deal it back in full. Hell, sometimes they would keep him at the front of their formation to take the brunt of the attacks, merely so he could get the riposte stab on their enemies. It was a good strategy, even Dismas could admit to that, but it did leave him riddled with more scars than he cared to be. If anything, it forced him to rely on his nimble evasion to stay alive this far, and that wasn't something he could do while weighed down with metal.

"I prefer to be light on my feet," he grunted, finding a coat that fit him perfectly. He balked at the price though -- it would mean choosing this over a new neckerchief and gloves, with how much he had already spent on his weapons. Oh well, at least he'd be warm for the coming fall. "Besides, it's not like your precious plate kept you off of death's door, last I remember."

Reynauld chuckled at the barb, and it felt like whatever tension had started their day had finally ebbed away. "You're right, I'm sure I'd be much safer if I could prance out of the way like you do."

 _Feh_. Yep, Reynauld was back to his wiley old charms and Dismas gave him a flat look, then punched him in the shoulder harmlessly. "I don't _prance_. But even if I did, at least _I_ manage to stay out of harm's way."

"I've had to carry you from battle twice!"

Dismas' ears burned at that and dismissed it with a wave of his hand, all nonchalant. "That was different. And I didn't _ask_ you to throw me on your back and drag me from the pits, you know."

There was that cheeky grin in Reynauld's deep voice, all-knowing and too-transparent, as he said, "Who said I carried you on my back?"

Startled, imagining the larger man carrying him in his arms like some waif, Dismas couldn't help but look up at him, at the laughter finally back in his eyes and that "inside joke at Dismas' expense" smirk Reynauld always favored, to which Dismas glared at. "I thought I told you not to make me regret saving you."

He laughed, booming and familiar and welcomed, and it washed over Dismas until he finally cracked a smile as well. Reynauld noticed immediately -- Dismas hated being so damn readable while barefaced -- and as they were leaving the store with their new equipment, the Crusader commented on it. "It's strange, seeing you without your scarf."

"It's strange being without it."

Unfortunately, he’d have to wait a couple of more weeks until their next expedition before he could get a replacement. Hopefully, their next adventure would be something manageable like picking off stray skeleton soldiers or mapping out more of the aqueducts or leisurely strolling the Old Road, outings that were still risky but didn’t beckon for their deaths at every turn. In the meantime, it meant Dismas had to shave his stubble more often that he was used to, which he rubbed at with irritation. 

The thought made his eyes flick to Reynauld’s beard, neatly trimmed enough that it emphasized the pale, strong jaw beneath but thick enough to be more than stubble, cut all the way down to his Adam’s apple. Unbidden memories of the brothel man’s scruff on Dismas’ neck shoved into his mind and he had to look away. He was still beyond pent up, which probably wasn’t good for his _or_ Reynauld’s health. At the very least, an expedition would help distract him from his unholy thoughts that had reappeared with a vengeance now that he wasn’t constantly worried if the Crusader would survive the night. 

When they finally made it back to the tavern, it was twilight and Reynauld looked exhausted. As much as Dismas wanted to stay up and -- do anything, really, illicit thoughts aside -- he helped get the man to bed, then went back down to the tavern to tie off the night with his remaining gold.

~~~~~

The next two days passed much the same and with the expedition still gone, Reynauld recovering, Paracelsus helping tend to the Crusader, and Junia tasked with helping the Heir open the sanitarium, that left Dismas to his own devices. Usually, that meant nothing good for those around him, but having spent the majority of his gold on outfitting himself with better equipment, he passed his days training, running, and wandering the grounds.

At the bridge to the Old Road, Dismas stopped at the sign that pointed to various other places nearby, including the Ruins, Weald, Warrens, and Cove. 

As of yet, the cove had been the only place of interest that they hadn’t gone exploring, so of course Dismas’ curiosity got the better of him. He had never seen an ocean before, not in all of his years traveling job to job. Without his weapons, he hesitated, knowing this was exactly something Reynauld would chastise him for. Luckily, Dismas was fast, so hopefully no one would even notice he was gone, and he wouldn’t go far, he promised himself.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Dismas turned towards where the cobblestones faded to soil faded to loose dirt faded to sand and ran. Ran for what felt like hours, watching the scenery change in a way he hadn’t experienced yet. The harsh forest that was the outer edge of the Weald thinned with every few minutes that passed until it melded into the outskirts of the farmstead and eventually ended entirely at a sheer cliff face -- where the old manor and aqueducts and ruins sat atop. It was a longer jog than he was used to and after a few miles, his lungs started to protest until the air turned salty, crisper and cooler. It washed over him in waves of brine, stinging his eyes and filling his senses with a saline richness. When his boots hit sand, he slowed to a stop and took in the sight around him. 

It was massive. A huge body of water, bigger than any Dismas had ever seen, expansive and endless the way it touched the sky on the horizon, unbroken, calm, serene. It took his breath away, the fresh ocean air caught in his throat. He tasted salt on his tongue and smiled inadvertently, loving the taste and feel.

Years ago, he had read a long odyssey of a hero traversing the ocean, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer brilliance and grandeur of _this_. It almost hurt to look at.

Slowly, hesitant, Dismas took off his gloves and knelt down to run his hands through the hot sand, bleached white from the sun and washed from the waves. He clenched fistfulls of it, enjoying the pleasant way it waterfalled from his fingers like liquid earth and created little mounds below. A smile danced on his lips as he watched a crustacean creature skitter along the small dunes, only to burrow in the warmth within.

For a while, he stayed crouched in the sand, not even minding how it clung to his clothes as if he were some idol. The tide lulled him, lidding his eyes with contentment, until it eventually called him closer.

He stood up and walked along the white edge of the shore, staring out at the great vastness beyond and smiling at the bits of seafoam dancing in the air around him as small waves began to form and break, creeping closer and closer to him. It felt… otherworldly, but in a welcoming way, a far cry from the disgusting creatures of Eldritch design they had been fighting. Here, Dismas only felt a soothing peace and tranquil pleasure, like all of his many cares were melting away from his mind, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. It was compelling, addictive almost, and he never wanted to leave.

The ocean before him shimmered like gems, the golden light from the sky above warped and glistened like a million coins on the surface. It was the color of beauty, the color of greed and lust, of temptation. Unbidden, he took a step towards it, kicking up warm sand, then another. The sea breathed, pulsed, alive with energy, her surface rising and falling with Dismas' own slow inhale, exhale, methodically with a rhythmic ease. It was entrancing and thoroughly mesmerized, Dismas took another eager step forward. 

The watery depths were a dark blue, foreboding and a harsh contrast to the playful waves washing to shore to lick at his boots, beckoning him closer. He assented and took another step, less cautious this time, a thrilling desire overflowing his pounding heart as the water's strong arms wrapped around his ankles, his calves, pulling him closer in her embrace.

Salt sprayed his cheeks wetly, whimsical, and he laughed along with the rolling waves. His shins were wet and water filled his boots, but he didn’t care. There were whispers in the water, a beautiful sound, calling to him by name shyly, coyly, music in his ears and soft splendor in his chest. He was in awe of the ocean, in awe of the way she moved, pulsated, opened her body to him and enveloped him. The stress in his shoulders was gone, massaged out muscle by muscle by that alluring voice speaking his name, drawing him in, full of promises and wonder. There was no room in his heart for anything else, nothing to worry him or make him ache or want foolishly, desperately. 

No, everything Dismas could ever want was just past these waves.

He was up to his thighs now, salt water seeped into his breeches, clawing their way up and soaking his skin. He loved it, wanted more of it, wanted the deepest depths to embrace him and fill his senses, and walked until he felt that cool, soothing wetness at his waist, his chest. The dark blues, the eerie greens, the gunmetal greys --

Dismas froze.

The ocean continued to pull at him, harder now, and he started to lose his footing in the sands beneath him that sloped down into the depths. The water splashed up at his neck, wanting, and he tasted heady salt coat his sputtering mouth. _Fuck_. He didn’t even know how to swim. 

Terror gripped him, the terror of being lost to the ocean, the terror of something filling his head with tender kisses, now turned to harsh words as they screamed his name, demanding him, claiming him. He took a step back, lifting his head, but the sea surged from behind him, sloshing up his back as if trying to cup him into its clutches. He fought, hard, the water in his boots resisting every movement, until it pained him. The screaming, the waves, the terror.

He shouldn’t have come here.

His legs were exhausted from his run, exhausted from resisting the pure force of the ocean, exhausted from weeks and months and years of fighting. A _lifetime_ of fighting. They wanted to give in, that blackest part of his mind encouraged him to, longed for that soothing, musical voice that promised him safety and affection. Promised him love and adoration, promised him whatever his heart desired. Not like that Crusader who abhorred the likes of Dismas, who taunted him, _teased_ him, made him think he was more than he could ever be. Who would never be his to claim.

Whatever Dismas wanted was his to indulge, that voice spoke, sweet and delicate and ecstasy in his mind. 

Just not _him_.

Not _Reynauld_.

Dismas heaved himself back at that, out of the spike of anger that seared through him, against the ocean, against the supple promises, and slow, as if in molasses, trudged himself back onto dry land. The shoreline surged at him threateningly and he clambered away from it, frantic, head ringing with the sea’s fury until it swelled and fell, waves deflating and seafoam abating. It calmed again and the voice silenced, and he missed it, _almost_. Missed the tender voice kissing through his mind, singing loving ballads and promising him the world. He had wanted to give in, and that made him ill.

A fog rolled in from nowhere and the sky blackened as he sat there, willing his heart to return to normal, waiting for his pants and shirt to dry. His old gloves had been lost to the tide in his frenzy and he cursed himself. The waters turned a deep grey blue, gorgeous and dark, glinting up at him as if mocking him and what he would never have.

He felt sick.

Eventually, he was steady enough to stand and dust the sand from his pants. There was a layer of salt on him as well, as if marking him, and he rubbed at it futility. He wanted to run from this place and felt stupid for coming alone, felt stupid for falling into whatever spell the ocean cast on him. It had felt wondrous for a time, and there was a small, shameless part of him that wanted to return to that tranquility, to that merciful embrace where his burdens fell away. 

As if reading his thoughts, the ocean surged forward once more, waves crawling towards him on their belly, kissing his boots as it slid back shyly. It was then that he noticed, that he _felt_ a weight in his coat, bulbous and heavy, and reached within only to pull out -- a shell. A large conch shell, nearly the length of his forearm. It glistened up at him, prettier than any trinket, incomparable to anything Dismas might afford in his lifetime, and he could swear that it beckoned to him. 

His mind recoiled from it instinctively and he wheeled his arm above his head to throw the shell back into the waves, then paused, chewed his lip, hesitated. After having nearly been taken captive by the breathtaking, frightening body of water, he wasn't sure if he should accept any of its offerings, its gifts, beautiful or not. 

But…

The shell _called_ to him, felt like an apology almost. Like something for him to remember that voice by, hauntingly lovely and just for him. Just for him. Those tender waves on his back, tendrils of affection clawing up his neck and melting the tension in his body, soothing, reassuring. Just for him. 

_Just for you._

It echoed in his mind, and he grasped the shell to him without a second thought, pulling it close to his chest with another inadvertent smile and tucking it into his coat. A momento couldn't hurt.

And it was just for _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the cove. I spend a lot of time on this, so hopefully you guys enjoy the cove lol


	17. Obsession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are coming a little slower, and I apologize. Each chapter winds up ~3,000 words over what I meant for them to be, because I have no control over these men anymore.
> 
> The cove is a ton of fun to write, though, so I hope you enjoy.

**17\. Obsession**

The first time he awoke in Reynauld’s arms, all Dismas could think was that it had been nothing like how he had imagined it, drunk and late at night and in the confines of his own room. 

The Crusader should have been flushed, sweaty, hair wild with pupils blown wide and half-lidden with lust, and at the very least shirtless, freshly ravaged and ready for more. Instead, his eyes were large with worry knitting his brows as he stared down at Dismas, lips parting as he said his name. Well that was almost right, but Dismas could barely hear him, sounding far away and muted. 

Something was wrong. Reynauld’s face was wet, drops pouring down his face and dripping onto Dismas’. Was he crying? No, that wasn’t right. Dismas’ face trickled with something as well. Rain? That seemed better, but how could it be raining in the tavern?

He tried to ask, tried to say anything at all but his voice caught in a sharp gasp when a searing hot pain ripped through his head like an iron poker jabbed right between his eyes. He squeezed them shut, wanting to drink in the sight of Reynauld above him but not wanting him to see the tears that sprang to them. Reynauld was upset -- he felt the man’s grip around him tighten, almost painfully, and he knew the man was calling his name again, somehow, worlds away. He couldn’t hear it over the hateful shrill ringing in his ears, furious and frenzied. Punishing him. 

It was over as quickly as it started, pain ebbing away but not gone entirely. As if a reminder of its presence, not to be forgotten. 

Slowly, his senses returned to him. He felt the water on his face and soaking his undershirt, inhaled the smell of cloying dirt fresh with rain, heard Reynauld above him, finally coherent, speaking not to him, but to someone just past Dismas’ vision.

“He’s awake!”

Dismas craned his head back until he caught sight of Paracelsus, maskless and in her nightgown now plastered to her body in the rain. She was holding a stun grenade and her bright green eyes were laden with concern. Had she used one on him? Is that why Dismas felt so foggy, so confused?

Why were they out in the rain?

“What -- ” Dismas tried, but his voice broke, unsettled. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Where are we?”

Reynauld looked to him, concern and relief a mixture in his tired eyes, as he said, “You tell us. You began to sleepwalk in the middle of the night. I awoke to the sound of frantic scratching coming from your room, and by the time I dressed and went to check on you, you were gone.” Dismas frowned, more confused than ever. Since when did he need Reynauld to check on him? _And since when do I sleepwalk?_ That was a dangerous habit for a brigand to have, for _anyone_ to have, so he wasn’t sure why he would start sleepwalking now.

Suddenly, he heard it. Loud crashing, water churning and slamming into the earth, a dull roar mixed with the rain, a sinister hiss as it retreated back in on itself, over and over. Dread hit him like a bullet, mind shrinking away from the realization, and flinched when Para confirmed it.

“You seemed to be heading for the cove.”

Panic replaced the dread like a flash of lightning, the rumble that followed echoed in his hollow-feeling bones and he desperately squirmed out of Reynauld’s grasp until he could clamber backwards, fear driving him away from the direction of the cove. Reynauld’s brows furrowed once more, looking stunned, until he rose and reached out for Dismas, not waiting for him to accept his outstretched hand but instead grabbing his good arm and hauling him to his feet where he swayed uneasily. 

“Dismas?”

His voice grounded him and Dismas breathed out through his teeth, hoping he didn’t look as wild as he felt. “I want to go back.” His voice sounded wrought with trepidation and he shivered in the rain, feeling the pull of the ocean still some miles away. “Home. _Please_.”

The worry grew in Reynauld’s eyes, but he blessedly nodded. Dismas wanted to be as far from this place as possible, and they turned to head to the Hamlet, Paracelsus leading them while Reynauld hung further back with him. Apparently, Dismas had made it pretty far before Reynauld had managed to wake Paracelsus and run after him. The storm swelled as they walked, thundering around them as if angry at their departure. It soaked through Reynauld’s tunic, which clung to his body in all the ways that Dismas might have more of a mind for, if it wasn’t still swimming in anxious currents.

He felt paranoid, nerves alight with vivid dreams that he couldn’t recall, but still felt the effects of. Reynauld placed a hand on Dismas’ shoulder and he flinched, apologized, looked away from the Crusader. This was ridiculous. He had awoken Reynauld in the middle of the night, wandered off during a storm, then was jumping at nothing. The road inclined as they walked and his calves burned from his run the day before, and Dismas forced himself not to peer over the edge of the road as they walked, down the side of the crag where he could hear the tide crashing into the cliff below.

As if reaching for him.

_Just for him._

By the time they made it back to the Hamlet and saw Paracelsus to the clinic, the storm had subsided to a light drizzle, almost pleasant, as if apologetic and soothing. Reynauld walked close, closer than normal, and Dismas could feel the man radiating warmth. He wanted it to blanket him, wanted it to chase away the horrors of his mind as the Crusader was so proficient at, but couldn’t bring himself to move nearer.

Reynauld helped him inside and they left a trail of water droplets after them, up the stairs, down the hallway, puddling beneath them as they stood in front of Dismas’ room, which was still cracked open. Reynauld cleared his throat and glanced at the door, unsure.

“Are you okay, Dismas?”

_No._ “Yes.”

Really, he had never agreed _not_ to lie to the Crusader, so what did Reynauld expect? He didn’t need to, it seemed, because Reynauld’s worried eyes scoured his face for the truth and frowned when he found it. “Do you want me to come inside and stay the night?”

_Yes._ “No.”

His voice shook from the weight of the lie, and Dismas couldn’t look at the taller man, at the brows upturned with concern and the crinkles around his stormy eyes, the trimmed beard and outlined jaw. At the scar that pulled when Reynauld frowned at him, lips still chapped from the ague, mouth set in a hard, downturned line.

He couldn’t look when Reynauld reached out and grabbed his hands, gently, and turned them up to examine them. 

They bled from the nails, all ten of them cracked and shorn with splinters. Dismas didn’t take care of his hands normally, didn’t mind the dirt that gathered under his nails or the knuckles that cracked in the winter. He didn’t mind the hair that grew on his thin wrists, the knobs of old breaks in his fingers, the scars from playing too many drinking games at his own expense.

He _did_ mind the way Reynauld ran his own callous fingers over his, featherlight, careful and delicate. The way they outlined the knuckles below, thick and boney, traced up to his long, bleeding fingers. They throbbed with every one of Dismas’ heartbeats, which was currently rapid and inconsistent and he _knew_ Reynauld could feel it in his grasp. The blood pooled and trickled down his pinky and the holy man ran his forefinger up it, hitching Dismas’ breath as he wiped the red away. 

"You stayed by me when I was unwell, Dismas," his words were heavy and weighed Dismas down with a strange air, and Dismas tried not to search for hidden meanings, tried not to examine the words too closely. He was tired. He was so tired, but his body was _alive_ at the mere touch of the other man and he shivered. "Let me return the favor."

_A favor_. It was a favor, another debt owed and paid, and Dismas was surprised to realize that he wasn't in the mood for favors for once.

Swallowing hard, Dismas looked up and met his eyes, not sure what he’d find in the heady gaze of someone who used his hands for death and tender touches alike. 

His grey eyes stormed like the angry sea, only his were soft and gentle and locked on Dismas, but still reminiscent of the voice that continuously clawed at his sanity. _Whatever you want_ , it purred in his memories, in his waking dream, _just not him_ , and it shook Dismas out of whatever reverie he was caught in. He looked away and slipped his hands from Reynauld’s, clutching them against his soaked undershirt for them to bleed into.

“I’ll be fine. I just need to go back to sleep.”

He wouldn’t. They both knew he wouldn’t, but Dismas was fine with that so long as he could just pry himself from those piercing eyes, perceptive in all the ways they shouldn’t be. With shaking hands, he pushed on the door to his room -- still unlocked and partially open from his wild escape -- and slid inside. He didn’t look at Reynauld as he shut the door, realizing after that he should have thanked the man for saving him from whatever the ocean had put in his head to do while he slept.

Vaguely, Dismas listened to the trickle of rain in the gutters while he scoured his mind for what haunted him. He could remember soft, turquoise skin that peaked to supple breasts, scales that glittered like sapphires and emeralds all shifting beneath his fingers, fins that arched gracefully, beautifully. 

More than anything, he remembered that voice calling to him, slithering around him like smoke from the finest tobacco money could buy, smooth on his lips like exquisite whiskey, in his mind like it was the only thing he could ever want, loving and beautiful and _horrid_.

Shuddering, tears at his eyes, Dismas turned and threw up in the chamber pot.

~~~~~

The next few days went by without another occurrence, but that might have been in part because Dismas slept fitfully. He was used to nightmares, even expected them at this point, but the dreams that he glimpsed when he did manage to nod off were of a whole new paradigm to haunt him. The conch shell rested on his desk, next to his writing utensils and the shameful locket, and he covered the shell with an old tattered shirt, not wanting to look at it but unable to bring himself to be rid of it.

He was increasingly irritable and temperamental with people, even those he sought the companionship of. His morning runs were short and filled with aches, and he ignored Junia’s offers to swathe him in holy light to heal his pains. This wasn’t something the Vestal could just pray away, no matter how much she insisted.

Boudica, the Hellion, was a surprising outlet for him; whereas everyone else shrank away or rolled their eyes at Dismas’ mood and snarky comments, Boudica embraced it. 

“You city-folk are not fit for battle!” she shouted in the middle of their most recent sparring match. The woman knew how to take an insult and a hit, then fling them both right back in turn with barbaric force. It was exactly what Dismas needed, and he bantered with her every chance he had. “You lack the spirit of a warrior!”

Dismas laughed and slashed wildly with a training knife, not even aiming for anything in particular. “That’s not what your sister said when we sparred in my bed last night.”

She deflected easily and grinned wickedly. “If your bedroom sparring is anything like _this_ ,” she swiped, hard, and nearly took his ear clean off. “Then I pity the waif who has the dishonor of enduring such a weak display!”

Back and forth. It was different than when he and Reynauld would spar, more aggressive, animalistic even. Boudica’s glaive had twice the length as the Crusader’s sword and made getting in close difficult, and was even harder to deflect. But gods, it was _exhilarating_. Dismas forgot his pains, forgot his fatigue and his fears when he was busy fighting for the upper hand, fighting for what felt like his life. Surely, Boudica knew the rules to friendly sparring, right? Dismas found he didn’t care if she did.

“You moan like a cow for someone who hasn’t gotten a nick on me,” Dismas smiled as he danced away from her overhead hack. She was graceful, but savage and predictable.

“Stop leaping about like a cubling!” she growled and bared her teeth at him. “Have you no honor?” She swung again where Dismas was, a heavy blow that he dodged with ease and a wild grin on his face. If anything, Boudica was fun to play with, and now that Dismas didn’t wind as easily, now that his legs were strong and body agile, he enjoyed the sound of the deadly glaive hitting nothing but air. He dodged behind her, setting up his attack, but she was quick to swing around.

They had drawn a small crowd, not unlike when he and Reynauld had sparred together, and he heard the cheers of Junia and the Heir coming from it. On top of it all came Reynauld’s voice, lighthearted as he warned, “Careful, Boudica. This one likes to fight dirty.”

_That rotten fink_ , Dismas thought distantly. Whose side was the Crusader on anyway?

Step after step, insult after insult, they twirled and swiped and deflected. Dismas was surprised at his own stamina, having had such fitful sleep, but the fear of death made him feel refreshed, excited. The training blade wasn’t as nice as his dirk was, still with the blacksmith, but it was sharp and nearly took off her fingers when she overestimated him, and with all of Boudica’s bluster, was pretty often. 

“Fight with your heart, wretch, so that I may devour it!” 

He didn’t know if she were an actual cannibal or if it were more of their banter, but Dismas grit his teeth and swiped, sliding down the head of her polearm and towards her fingers. It forced her to back up lest she lose them. “You’ll have to hit me first, love!”

Her roar turned frustrated, the blue war paint smudged with sweat, and she yawped, “ _KREE-YAH_ , do you not know that guile is a sin?”

She was fighting harder, wild and reckless, and Dismas saw his chance. He dodged, but not out of the way and instead dove forward. It was the same move that he used on Reynauld, the same unexpected duelist’s advance that got him exactly where he wanted to be -- within their defenses. 

Unfortunately, unlike with Reynauld, Boudica didn’t pull her punches and he felt the sharp pain of her glaive searing through the muscles in his arm. He didn’t even twitch, not at the razor intrusion, not at the blood that spurted from his light shirtsleeve, not at the gasps that surrounded him from the onlookers. All he could see was Boudica’s look of shock as he stepped close with the training knife at her pale white throat. The blue paint dripped from her chin with her exertion, and they both panted against one another for a long moment. 

His arm flared in agony from the large gash, exposing sinew and muscle beneath, but he couldn’t stop smiling. Even the pain refreshed him.

“Your blood stinks of victory and conquest, thief. It is the true measure of spirit!” she grinned back, looking thoroughly impressed as she took a step against the knife. “Now take mine or quit wasting my time!” 

Dismas paused, looked to her soft flesh pressed against the blade, looked to the resolve in her eyes as she peered down at him, impatient, then flicked his wrist up. It nicked the knife tip against her jaw, which flecked red against her neck mixed with the blue that ran down to her collarbone now, and her grin spread wider. Dismas didn’t know anything of her culture, but it seemed insulting to not draw blood with the winning blow from the way she demanded it from him.

They parted with a satisfied nod to one another, a newfound respect and understanding that could only be found in the heat of battle, and one Dismas hadn’t expected of the wild woman. He savored it, though, savored the way she slashed the blood from her blade -- his blood -- and savored the way she howled his victory in her native tongue.

Junia came running over with her holy book and fastened her eyes to their wounds. “Please, Miss Boudica, allow me to -- ”

The Hellion snarled at her, animalistic, and Junia shrank back. “You would dishonor me with your prayers? Spare me your fretting, abbess!” With that, Boudica turned and left the training ring, glaive on her shoulders and blood on her neck. Junia worried at her bottom lip as she watched the woman leave, then turned to Dismas with her holy book open.

“What she said,” Dismas shrugged off her hand from his arm that still freely wept blood down his cotton sleeve, which had done nothing to deflect the Hellion’s vicious attack.

“But!” Junia protested. “Dismas, your arm…!” 

Dismas turned his back to her with a derisive snort; the pain was bracing, the blood was refreshing, and Boudica’s love for it was starting to make sense. He wasn’t going to let Junia take that from him and he said as much. “Sod off, I haven’t felt so alive and alert in days.”

“That will be short-lived unless you let her heal you,” came a gruff, familiar voice. Reynauld, still without his new armor and clothed in his simple white tunic, approached them with the Heir in tow. Dismas looked him up and down, not welcoming his intrusion for once, and bit back a rude retort. His left arm was shaking, dripping blood into the training ring, and he turned it away from them.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he said to the red-flecked dirt, scathingly.

“Actually, Dismas,” the Heir spoke up in a jarring voice. He looked healthier than he had been the days and weeks prior. “You seem far grumpier than normal. No offense!” he said quickly to the scowl Dismas shot at him. “If you need a night in the brothel, I can cover your expenses. _Or!_ I can always send Jingles’ your way!” A free night in the pleasure halls was a proposal that Dismas would have killed for in the past, even just a few weeks ago, but now all he felt was irritation and shrugged off the Heir’s generous offer.

“I said I’m fine. I just haven’t been… sleeping much.” His eyes flicked to Reynauld’s automatically, who raised an eyebrow. At Dismas’ frantic protests, Reynauld and Paracelsus promised not to say anything about his sleepwalking to the Heir or Junia. He didn’t want them worrying over what would likely wear off with time, especially when he doubted they could help in the first place.

“Oh! Paracelsus has created the best tinctures for insomnia. Even better than the city stuff I used to take,” he smiled encouragingly in response. That explained why he looked better.

Dismas swayed, either from fatigue or blood loss or sheer irritation, and Reynauld steadied him with a hand at his back and asked Junia to kindly heal the Highwayman anyway. The green light washed over him, soothingly, his arm wound closing to form a tight scar to add to his collection. 

The pain in his head was still there, though. Still hyper present and throbbing, just slightly, just noticeable enough to be endlessly irritating.

…

A few more days of this and Dismas was ready to stab the next person he saw.

There was a knock at his door, interrupting his hour of staring at the seashell -- which seemed to be the only thing that abated his headache these days -- and Dismas was all but ready to pounce…

...Until he opened the door to Reynauld, garbed in shiny new armor, bascinet under his arm and a leather-wrapped bundle in his hand that he stretched out to Dismas.

“The blacksmith just finished everything this morning,” Reynauld said with a smile, and Dismas accepted the bundle gratefully. A new gun and knife, far nicer than his old set, and they glimmered up at him with a tempting newness. He was excited to try them out, and they were about the only thing he had been looking forward to all week with how restless he was. He hadn’t even been to the bar, too nervous about blacking out drunk and waking up at the bottom of the ocean, if he even _did_ wake up. 

Thanking Reynauld for delivering them, Dismas wrapped them back up in the bundle and made to retreat into his room, into the silence, but Reynauld stopped the door before he could.

“There’s one more thing…” Dismas raised his eyebrow at the hand on his door, at the soft tone in Reynauld’s voice, and opened the door again, agitated but curious.

Reynauld was silent, apprehensive almost, as he reached into his tabard and pulled out another cloth bundle to offer to Dismas. It was nicer than the leather scrap that the blacksmith had so obviously used to package his weapons and it was tied with a piece of twine to keep the contents safe. It resembled a… a present. The pretty kind, the likes of which Dismas had never received before, his usual gifts as a child being precious extra rations on his birthday and fewer lashings. 

Chuckling, the Crusader pressed it to him and said, “Take it. It’s not a trap or anything.”

Dismas flushed and snatched it from him, ruder than he meant to, but then… nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to open it, to tug on the twine and peel off the fancy material to unveil whatever was inside. There’s no way the contents could be as… nice as this, as thoughtful and… touching. He wanted to put it on his desk, next to the conch shell and shameful locket, wanted to feel this same heat when he looked at it. Wanted to appreciate it for at least a few more days, but Reynauld just smiled at him patiently in his doorway, too kind and too considerate for the likes of Dismas.

“Please?” Reynauld prompted, a smile in his voice at Dismas’ torment.

...Fine. If the Crusader wanted him to ruin his gift so bad, so quickly after giving it to him, _fine_. Dismas felt warm, too warm, too scrutinized, as he slowly pulled the twine thread from the knot it was in, loosening it until the wrapping fell open in his palm and he saw --

\-- fabric. _A cowl_. 

It was soft, so soft, and a lovely blue color, as if slate met sapphire met some deep, royal cobalt. The flowing material felt like water in his hands and poured out the sides of his palms, freed from the twine and wrapping. Tucked inside the light, plumate fabric were leather skin gloves dyed of a matching color, hard and sturdy compared to the airy scarf. It was elegant and detailed, refined, of a handsome quality and craftsmanship. All the things Dismas wasn’t. 

Reynauld cleared his throat, looking as out of place as Dismas had ever seen him. More out of place than in the pits of the Swine King, than the dirt-entrenched abbey, than the seedy bar they had met in what felt like so long ago. 

“They didn’t have red with the same buffs. Sorry.” It sounded sheepish, embarrassed, and Dismas couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. Eventually, he found his words, but only after gaping at the liquid silk in his hands, the luxe gloves still tucked within the scarf, only after remembering how to speak.

“Why?”

The other man shifted uncomfortably, eyebrows drawn. Dismas wasn’t exactly sure what reaction people looked for when giving gifts to others, but it clearly wasn’t this. It’s part of why he hated getting gifts or compliments or praise, when his usual response was something sarcastic or snarky. Or _rude_ , in this case. Reynauld didn’t seem dissuaded, though, and just said, “I ruined your last one.”

_Oh_. Another debt owed, another debt paid. 

Dismas fisted the material in his shaking hands, still sore and throbbing from the week prior when he tried to claw through his door, more intense and painful when his heart beat awry. Like now, under the Crusader’s soft gaze, his even softer gift clutched in Dismas’ fists, his fingers were in agony. 

Not a gift, then. An _obligation_. That was fine. It was still more than Dismas deserved.

After all, it had been his own fault that they had run out of bandages to save the Crusader, his own greed that put Reynauld’s life at risk.

He finally looked up at the other man and stopped, realizing why the cowl had unsettled him. That cheeky bastard, the brazen git -- the dark greys and deep blues of the scarf were reflected in his eyes. Those stormy irises, like an angry fog rolling in on the ocean, like coastal thunderheads blooming on the horizon, like…

Bile was at his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, held his hands out, that pain in his mind flooding him with revulsion. “I can’t accept this, Reynauld.” It was a fucking shame, too -- more than a shame, it was an absolute injustice -- to turn down such a beautiful gift. It was unfair, and tore at his thin heartstrings as he shoved the gorgeous material back.

The set must have cost him a pretty penny because there was hurt in Reynauld’s voice when he finally answered, incredulous, “Why?” 

Dismas looked up, eyes apologetic, morose, frustrated. It was a breathtaking pair, and Reynauld seemed thoroughly confused -- for good reason. Dismas wanted it, but not when it haunted him with the horrors in his own mind, the despair he felt at every spark of pleasure that voice concocted in him, in his dreams. It sickened him, how desperate he was starting to feel, enticed to give in to the musical words, if for nothing more than to silence them at last. 

Hesitant, he looked at the puzzlement lining Reynauld’s face, bit his cheek, pulled his clenched hands back. This beacon of Light and hope and all the things finally going well in Dismas’ pathetic life had managed to assuage his inner turmoil, his darkest moments, chased away his hopelessness in the past. Perhaps Dismas could trust him to do it again.

“There’s something I gotta tell you.”

…

Reynauld sat on his bed, patiently, his armor weighing down the mattress, watching Dismas with a frown as he paced about the room. He blessedly waited for Dismas to finish recounting his dire jog to the cove, some days before. Had it been a week already? Dismas didn’t know, the sleepless days too blurred together.

Judging by Reynauld’s grim expression, it had been a while. 

“So. Yeah.” He finished lamely, arms spread wide helplessly as he ceased his pacing and looked to the Crusader anxiously. “I guess I’m cursed.”

Silence answered him as Reynauld leaned his elbows on his knees, eyes creased and pensive. Dismas was shocked, honestly, that the man hadn’t immediately called him an absolute idiot for going down there by himself, weaponless, armorless. And rightfully so. Dismas’ hasty actions usually came back to bite him in the ass, in some form or another, but never as some soothing voice in his head that promised him riches and love and punished him when he recoiled from it. He didn’t know how to cope with it alone anymore.

“Just to get this straight,” Reynauld heaved a sigh, looking as exhausted as Dismas was. Almost, anyway. Dismas hadn’t looked in a mirror lately, very purposefully avoiding his tired reflection. “You went down to the cove, _by yourself_ , without any _weapons_ , in a town filled with _Eldritch_ \-- ” _Here we go_ , Dismas thought with irritation. It’s not like he didn’t _deserve_ the man chewing him out, but he wished he could sidestep it; he had punished himself plenty for his actions already. “Then heard a voice in the waves and nearly walked out into the ocean?”

“That about sums it up.”

“ _Dismas_ ,” groaned Reynauld with exasperation, running a hand down his face. “I can’t believe you would do something so reckless.” He paused at that, and Dismas thought back to all of the other risky things he had done recently -- diving at the Shambler, running through an army of undead, throwing away their bandages -- and raised an eyebrow. Reynauld must have mirrored his thoughts, because he leaned back with a vexed expression and said, “Actually, yes I can.”

Dismas tried to take his lumps with dignity, feeling flustered and frustrated, and huffed. “Well, when you put it like _that_ , of course it sounds reckless.” 

Reynauld stood up, took a step closer, and Dismas tried not to shy away. It was nice to finally tell someone what happened to him, his dirty secret of the past week, but he was on edge still, antsy, scared that Reynauld couldn’t fix this. That he shouldn’t, but Dismas would ask it of him anyway. 

“Why would you go down there in the first place?”

It was a simple question, probably the easiest to answer of all the questions Reynauld could have asked in place of it, but it made Dismas shift uncomfortably. “I had never seen the ocean before.” Which was true, and when left to his own machinations, seemed relatively harmless. But it hadn’t been, he had nearly been dragged out to sea by Light-knows-what. And now, that same ill-intent whispered through his mind and haunted his dreams with glittering scales and parted lips.

Sighing, Reynauld stroked at his beard, eyes distant. “We should tell the others about this. Alhazred and Paracelsus. And the Heir. See if they know anything about the cove.”

“ _No_ ,” Dismas spoke too quickly, and the Crusader furrowed his brow at him. “Not yet, anyway.” Everyone else was still focused on clearing out the ruins or the warrens or assigned to their own separate tasks per the Heir. To throw them at whatever this ethereal ocean entity was without knowing anything about it would just… waste supplies, risk lives. No, Dismas shook his head, there was something else he wanted from the other man first.

“I think there’s something down there, and I want to check it out.”

~~~~~

The smell of salt was the first thing Dismas recognized, just as the soil turned loamy, loose, the stench of fertilizer fading to brine as they passed through the outskirts of the farmstead towards the beach. 

They walked in silence for the most part, Dismas too lost to his treacherous thoughts for their usual banter. He had his new weapons on him, blessedly, and Reynauld was in his new plate and chainmail, so he should have felt confident. At the very least, more confident than when they faced down the abrupt darkness of the Shambler, encroaching on their minds, but somehow Dismas felt just as vulnerable. Just as uncertain of this new unknown. 

Soon, the ground turned pliable, granular and velvety and gave way to their heavy footprints that parted the sand in their wake. Dismas still wasn’t accustomed to the way it flexed and melted beneath him, covering his boots with every step as if he belonged to the shore, claiming him with each fine grain of sand.

Reynauld, on the other hand, walked with unwavering tenacity as per usual, his steel boots marking the beach as the beach marked Dismas. It gave him a shred of hope, that even if he didn’t know how to handle this new threat, maybe the Crusader would.

The waves splashed and crashed, roaring in the distance as if offended by their approach. The waterline reached, strained until it was paper thin, towards the two men who dare intrude on the serenity, then retreated back to the shimmering body of blue and green and grey only to try again with the next wave. The tide was further back after the storm that had rocked the Hamlet and the cliffs, but it seized and swelled regardless. The sand turned dark as it was churned by the choppy waters, tiny shells and even smaller creatures within being dragged back by her unforgiving grasp. 

Dismas shivered. He had almost been one of those miniscule beings, lost to her touch, harsh, gentle, unpredictable. He still might, if he lost control, the flicker of pain deep in his mind warned him. 

“It’s beautiful,” Reynauld spoke, his skyline eyes hidden behind his bascinet. 

_And terrible_ , Dismas agreed, shivering and backing away from the ever encroaching waterline. Whoever she was, she wouldn’t have him -- not if Dismas had a say in it. He was just terrified of the day he might not. 

He felt Reynauld’s hand on his shoulder, heavy and bracing. Dismas needed it, but that thing deep in his mind recoiled from it. He remembered her soft words, the ocean murmuring against his ear, _not him_ , and he believed it long before they had been spoken to him. The tide rippled at his boots, somehow so close despite the distance Dismas forced between him and it. When had that happened? It felt warm, welcoming, and he missed the gentle purr of the waves.

It was so vast, stretched out beyond Dismas’ comprehension like something out of a poem, something ethereal and mythical. Light where no man could see, sound where no man could hear, life where no man could breath. 

_No man except for him_ , the voice beckoned, waves cresting and misting the air with a salty tang. 

He stuck his tongue out to taste it, inhaled it, opened himself to it. Those dark depths swelled even more waves, more foam, more laughter, and he smiled. What had he been so afraid of? The expanse of blue settled his mind and he was content, more so than he had been all week. His entire life, even. She breathed with him, waves rolling in and out, brushing against the shore and reaching towards him with every exhale. Pulsing. Alive. Gentle, and _just for him_.

“Dismas?”

Turning, Dismas saw the long length of sand stretched between them, upturned from fresh footprints -- _his_ footprints. 

_Shit_. When had that happened? 

A chill crawled up his back, furrowing his brows as he looked at the other man. Thank the fucking Light he brought Reynauld this time, not that the man would have allowed it any other way. “Sorry,” he murmured, averting his eyes. He had grown so used to seeing Reynauld’s face, always so vivid with some emotion, some intensity, that locking eyes with a metal helmet made Dismas feel more vulnerable than he cared to be, especially without his cowl.

“I wish I could have been here,” the other man murmured, barely a whisper over the sound of the crashing waves. “The ocean is really quite beautiful at times.” His voice was wistful, distant. In a different life, maybe.

Focusing back on Dismas, his voice turned hard and serious. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Dismas shrugged, looking away from the Crusader, away from the ocean, and started when he caught sight of a… a cave? It was an opening where the cliff met the water, black and hollow and leading down below the shore’s surface. It looked almost like an altar, a gaping abyss with two large, stone pillars weathered by the tide to indicate the entrance, all covered in a thick layer of algae slime, barnacles and coral sprouting from the slick rocks. 

Wood and seaweed and refuse littered the sands near it like a mural of waste, a cacophony of trash. Dismas hadn’t remembered seeing that before -- the storm must have helped clear away the blockage of debris the nights prior. It felt… out of place. Special.

_Just for him._

Without thinking, Dismas ran to it and Reynauld was quick to follow, not letting the Highwayman out of his sight after admitting to nearly drowning himself earlier. The acrid odor of rotting fish and salty mildew barraged his senses, all of them at once, as if Dismas could feel it, see it, _taste_ it. 

He gagged and dry heaved, grateful for having skipped lunch. 

“By the holy Light…!” Reynauld exclaimed, revulsion lacing his words. They both took a step closer and immediately regretted it, the putrid fetor of decaying fish amplifying with each movement. A dank warmth radiated from the entrance to the cove, which only worsened the reeking stench of brine and dead fish.

Suddenly, Dismas didn’t care. He _wanted_ that warmth, wanted that moist embrace, wanted whatever was within those water-logged trenches, those salt-soaked caverns. It called to him, and he wished nothing else than to answer --

A hand stopped him and he nearly lopped it off, teeth bared and mind blank of anything that wasn’t _her_ \--

Those blue eyes pierced him, pierced the fog that was in his mind, and Dismas trembled with unspent energy. Reynauld had lifted the visor of his bascinet, eyes once more drawn with worry. Worry for his hand or worry for Dismas’ state of mind, he wasn’t sure, but those glacier eyes stopped whatever he had intended to do. Dismas shook his head, tried to shake the presence from his mind, tugging his soul into the slime-covered barnacle pit below. 

“We’ve found the entrance. We should leave,” the Crusader said.

Dismas bit his lip and eventually nodded, hating how badly he didn’t want to leave this place. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dismas really is that dumb.
> 
> The next few chapters going forward will be from Reynauld's perspective because Dismas has no chill right now.
> 
> Please let me know what you think :)


	18. Prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay on this chapter. I spent a lot of time putting together the semblance of a more linear timeline for Help Wanted so I have at least a small idea of where to go next. 
> 
> Heads up, this is more roster bonding than Reymas, with some plot sprinkled in. Next chapter won't take as long.

**18\. Prey**

They trickled in slowly over the next two weeks and Reynauld was grateful for the distraction. 

Three new conscripts joined their squalid Hamlet; it seemed every time the Caretaker arrived back upon their haunted, rotted cobblestone steps, he brought with him a fresh face -- none so hopeful or promising, but at the very least a new recruit to fill their meager ranks.

After the Heir had upgraded the stagecoach, built austere barracks, and sent out additional flyers for honor and riches and violence, more desolate souls with weapons and armor congregated in. It was refreshing, seeing new faces not yet haunted by the horrors of the town, apprentices in Eldritch eradication, and even _more_ refreshing that Reynauld had been tasked by the Heir with testing each of their abilities and proficiency for battle. It brought him back to his days in the Crusades, training recruits to be sent to the slaughter. He said a prayer for each of them, hoping they would at least last longer than his allies had in the holy wars. 

A lawman by the name of William and his faithful wolfhound, Laika, had joined their squalid team a couple weeks back. He fought with beast and baton alike, their unshakeable bond forged by battle and bloodshed, and between the two they were a deadly combo that forced Reynauld on defense to avoid gnashing teeth set upon him by a simple snap, then called off at a mere whistle. 

William was a tough and uncommonly compassionate ex-lawman that was immediately swayed to Reynauld’s good side in his pursuit of the greater good, still clad in his Gendarme’s uniform but now with a missing badge. Him and his wolfhound worked in tandem to bring down their enemies and protect the innocent, stalking the back ranks and bursting forth in a flurry of harrying bleed attacks and stunning blows with his cudgel. During the past two weeks, Reynauld had taken a liking to William, sharing their bloody victories and bloodier losses over long sparring matches together. The man was thrilled by the _hunt_ , as he called it, and emboldened by his tragic past to purge the Hamlet of evil.

A good man.

The next person to join the cause had been a war-weary, grizzled man, older than Reynauld by a good twenty years or so, hulking plate and eyepatch adorning his serious expression. He was stout, battle-hardened, aged grey and introduced himself as Barristan. He didn’t speak of his past, not the way William had been so forthcoming with the devils that spurred him to the Hamlet in search of redemption, but in their quick sparring match, Reynauld had learned enough. 

Barristan was a veteran strategist and defender, calculated and tactical in his advances and judicious with his attacks. He swung his mace rarely, choosing instead to charge into the training pit with his shield raised like a battering ram. He was inspirational, a clear leader, Light-blessed and buff-built and Reynauld appreciated that about him intrinsically. It was something he favored as well in the heat of battle, knowing he could rouse his companions and steady their stress with a well-timed warcry or prayer. Wherever war Barristan hailed from, however long ago and whatever the outcome, it seemed to weigh on him greatly, but he did not yet waver in his age. Their match was quick with Reynauld’s trained eye and the big soldier’s prowess. 

Their last recruit had been a tiny thing, blonde, beautiful, quick with a laugh and quicker with a knife. He had to admit, when Reynauld first saw Audrey step off the stagecoach, he hadn’t been impressed. She didn’t take him seriously, didn’t seem to take _anything_ seriously, and instead sang a perverse nursery rhyme on their walk to the training ground as if it were nothing more than a lovely stroll through the park. 

“I do indeed fancy a dance, good knight,” she smirked when they approached the guild, then hopped the wooden fence to the training ground as if it were nothing at all. “Don’t you _dare_ bleed on my coat, though, darling.”

Reynauld had rolled his eyes -- Jingles was headache enough of a cheeky buffoon these past months, he didn’t need a pair set to pin him with needle and slight. He took his stance across the arena and waited for her to do the same. To do anything, really, but instead she fiddled with her rabbit’s foot talisman, measured the direction of the wind, and yawned, loudly, theatrically, then said, “Breezy out today, innit?”, obtuse enough to make Reynauld clench his jaw at her impudence and take a step.

The moment he moved a muscle, he felt a pinch at his neck, more shocking than painful, and reached up to find -- a dart, tiny and sharp. He yanked it out and winced at the blood that dripped, but it was barely even a wound on its own. Certainly nothing that would count as an actual attack. Did this cur really think to fell him with a little poison? 

“ _Oh_ , did that sting?” she shouted over to him, a teasing smile echoing in her lilted, confident voice. 

Angry, fed up, Reynauld resumed his stance and rang back, “Prepare yourself to fight, vixen! Else find your way back whence you came!”

Instead, she turned away from him and called over her shoulder, “I think not, love! It’s nearly tea time and you’ll want to see a medic right quick for that little kiss of mine.” She then blew a kiss at him and shrieked a laugh, jumping back over the fence and leaving Reynauld alone in the field. He had shoved past the guild and was on his way to the Heir’s manor to condemn Audrey back to the stagecoach when he -- 

…

When he woke up in the clinic, Paracelsus was staring down her mask at him and holding up a tiny green vial like it was a precious gem. Her voice was breathless, in awe, as she brought it up to the light and whispered, “Where did you _find_ such a toxin?” As if the Crusader had merely found it in the street somewhere and had nothing better to do than black out in broad daylight. “It’s _gorgeous_.”

He wasn’t sure how a poison could be anything other than _irritating_ at best, but the Grave Robber Audrey seemed to have some use to her after all, other than annoying Reynauld to no end with her teasing tricks and backhanded charms.

Dismas hadn’t met any of them in more than passing, which was probably for the best given his sleep-deprived, white-hot impatience with everything that wasn’t Reynauld. He mostly spent his time sparring with him or Boudica during the day, then loudly pacing the floor in his room at night to keep himself awake. It bothered Reynauld to no end, knowing there was nothing in his immediate power that he could do to help the agitated man. After having found the mysterious, salt-rotted entrance of the cove, Reynauld spoke to the Heir about sending an expedition there to look around, preferably with himself at the helm.

“It’ll have to wait,” the Heir sighed distractedly as he sized up the partially reconstructed sanitarium before them. He had outsourced labor and beds for the cells from nearby towns and had managed to clear out the grime left behind from the Ancestor, but the building itself was all but thatched with wooden planks. “I’ve already sent out an expedition for the week and don’t want to risk the funds or manpower sending another. Not when this is so _close_ to reopening.”

Reynauld wasn’t sure he would call that ‘close’ to reopening, but he didn’t press the issue, nor did he allude to the urgency he felt. Having seen Dismas empty and mindless and feral as they struggled in the mud together that night, then sleepless and irritable every day thereafter, Reynauld felt a growing haste and bubbling anxiety in putting an end to the cove's strange trance over the Highwayman. Dismas appeared to still be holding out hope that he'd snap out of it one day, it seemed, based on the way he begged for Reynauld's promise of secrecy -- which the Crusader gave, of course, despite the sheer absurdity of it all. 

_It wasn't his place_ , Reynauld would repeat to himself. This strange protective surge at the memory of Dismas stumbling from him, the subtle hurt at Dismas shelving his gifts, the unsettling yet nagging… _prick_ at Dismas' recent absence. 

Light be good, but it wasn't his place.

That left Reynauld alone to wonder just what his place actually _was_ , here in the Hamlet, here with Dismas. He had asked the man to stay in so many words, and now Dismas was suffering from something alien to them, something beyond Reynauld's justicar reach to fix. It drove him mad, made him restless and aimless, saturated him with guilt. 

_No_ , he would find a way to end the man's pain, he just had to find something to keep him preoccupied in the meantime.

…

“ _And so, my performance begins!_ ”

Reynauld heard the loud, jarring laugh of the Jester coming from the guild as he passed by, soon followed by the familiar clash of metal on metal; Dismas must have found a new sparring partner while Reynauld was out overseeing the sanitarium with the Heir. He wasn’t surprised that Jingles had assented to a match -- the young man _loved_ being the center of attention, after all.

“ _Feh_. A fine trick for a carnie,” came the icy response, and Reynauld couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Jingles might favor the limelight, but Dismas’ love for trash-talking and belittling his enemies was on a whole other level. “Take your pathetic show on the road, clown.”

Whatever helped de-stress the other man, so be it.

As Reynauld drew close enough to be noticed, he watched as Dismas dodged the curved swipe of a sickle, tossed his dirk to his offhand to riposte, but fumbled when he glanced to Reynauld who merely leaned against the sparring fence in amusement. He recovered quickly enough and rebounded at Jingles, albeit too slow to score a hit, but the lapse didn’t go unnoticed by either his sparring partner or Reynauld. 

“What, am I _boring_ you, thief?” Jingles cackled as he glanced to where Reynauld stood watching them. “You can barely carry a tune, let alone that knife.”

The responding lunge from Dismas’ dirkhand was a ruthless one meant to open a vein if it found its mark, which it nearly had but at the last moment was met by air that rang with bells. Reynauld could see the patience waning in the Highwayman as he furrowed his brows and stepped again, forcing Jingles on the defensive with a surprised laugh. The Jester was quick and agile, flexible and evasive in all the ways Reynauld and Boudica weren’t and it appeared to be a change of pace for Dismas. 

“Your dumb luck is holding, it seems,” spat Dismas, stepping back from Jingles’ range, then back in with the glint of metal. They twirled, back and forth, far more graceful than Reynauld had been in his full armor or Boudica had been with her long glaive, bells chiming and steel clanging. 

They kicked up dust with each movement, a whirlwind of knives and barbs, bared teeth and grinning cloth. Without his scarf, Reynauld was able to see the damp perspiration on Dismas’ skin, the clenched jaw and rapid heartbeat any time the Highwayman was still long enough for him to catch a glimpse. Reynauld could tell how winded Dismas was from lack of sound sleep, of sound mind, as he sought for an opening, and Reynauld didn’t notice the presence at his shoulder until it was shouting for carnage from the fence. 

_“FEAR NOT THE PAIN OF CONQUEST, FOOLS!”_

Reynauld jumped at that, at the Hellion leaning her height into the ring to bellow her annoyance, taunting and goading and grinning. Boudica seemed equally fond of both Dismas and Jingles, and seemed ambivalent as she shouted, "Nothing refreshes the spirit like drawing blood!"

The two of them watched on, separate but mutually invested in the match, until the slender shadow of Sister Junia joined them at the fence next. Reynauld noticed Boudica stand straighter, leaning back out of the ring to glance down at the Vestal, but he was too distracted by Jingles drawing first blood to think much of it. Dismas’ forehead ran red with the lapse, just above his eyebrow that seeped to his eye and down his crooked nose, and he stepped back to wipe at it angrily with the back of a dirty hand.

Jingles answered with a gleeful laugh and pursued, and beside Reynauld, the Hellion yawped, “If it were _me_ , that would have been a killing blow!”

Junia stifled a laugh at that behind her hand, which Boudica smirked at in return. Reynauld paid the women no mind, too focused on Dismas losing his edge now that his vision appeared blurred by his blood. His steps seemed unsure and he was on the defensive, wiping at his wound dripping wet distraction into his eye, and his riposte seemed sluggish in comparison to the clown’s dancing daggers.

“Enough flailing and you’re considered a vetern, apparently,” Jingles spoke in a sing-song voice, maddening beyond the mere insult even as an onlooker.

Dismas scowled, blocking another swipe with a sharp _clang_ at the last moment, and seemed to be losing his temper. “You think yourself clever?” His words were short of breath, but fueled by that familiar anger Reynauld knew of the smaller man. “Then juggle these fists, _fool_.” In a burst of irritated energy, Dismas feinted left, then tossed the dirk to his offhand, feinted once more right, and at the last moment swung his empty fist right into the pristine white Jester mask, which snapped back with a clamor of bells. 

Seemingly on reflex, still bent backwards from the force of the unexpected jab, Jingles swiped up with his sickle and nicked Dismas’ wrist, to which the Highwayman responded with a slice of his own. When they parted, both were bleeding with fresh cuts, but despite Dismas’ confident smirk, Reynauld could see the way his posture swayed with the wind. 

“Careful, Dismas,” Reynauld cautioned, knowing how the man liked to push beyond his limits.

The Highwayman glanced to him, brows knitted and smirk gone, but Jingles merely laughed at the intrusion, twirled his blades, then said, “Ah, the _prig_ and the _prigger_. Am I not enough brawn to keep your attention, Dismas? That stings, you know.”

Another lunge across the ring, the tingle of bells as his only warning, and Jingles was upon him yet again, maddened cackles and glinting steel putting Dismas on the defensive once more. Whatever happened next was lost to Reynauld as he felt a hand at his shoulder and he turned to face…

William. 

The old lawman smiled a bushy straw smile at him and took a place at the fence beside the Crusader with Laika at his heels, as per usual, and Reynauld nodded to them both. Junia and Boudica were still cheering at his other side, and the Crusader meant to turn back to the sparring match as well until William cleared his throat and spoke.

“Fair weather for a fight.”

There wasn’t much Reynauld could respond to that with, so he simply nodded in return. “Indeed. Have you come to test your mettle again?”

“No, not quite,” he chuckled. “The Heir is planning a feast for the Hamlet overmorrow.”

Junia perked up at that and leaned back to smile excitedly at the two of them, face warm and damp with a thin sheen of sweat beneath her cloth habit, and Reynauld had to remind himself that the Sister had little experience in such revelry. “A feast? Whatever for?”

Reynauld cared for little else that wasn’t the man struggling in the center of the arena, if he were being honest with himself. Dismas was still holding his ground, blood still gushing from his head wound, no doubt pumping hot from the adrenaline and the exertion, but his playful smile was gone. He was winded, Reynauld knew, stressed and exhausted beyond a doubt, and he was half tempted to end the Highwayman’s match with Jingles entirely if it wouldn’t bruise the other man’s ego. 

“He wants to celebrate the asylum opening, and has asked me to lead a boar hunt for the feast,” William said with a half-smile, appearing both humbled and proud to be asked in the first place. For a newcomer, it was far too easy to like the other man, not in the least of which was because he had apparently been running from his own past as well, though Reynauld would never admit to such. “I was looking to gather a hunting party.”

That caught Boudica’s attention, gaze quickly drawn from the ring with a wicked grin and raised red brow. “Is that so? What I would not give for meat from the bone. I must ask to join your company, Houndmaster.”

Dismas ducked down, sweat and blood on his face plastered with loose dirt from the ring as he maneuvered low beneath Jingles’ lunging momentum, and with a flourish, threw the lanky clown over his shoulder and into the dirt. Reynauld could _hear_ the wind being knocked from Jingles’ who landed flat on his back, a crescendo of bells falling still in a crown around him, arms out to the side and empty of their blades. 

The others didn’t notice Dismas’ win, sudden that it was, and by now most of the Hamlet’s townsfolk had learned to avoid the Highwayman when he was in this agitated mood, so there were no throngs of onlookers. Reynauld saw, though, saw the way Dismas helped Jingles’ to his feet, saw the way he patted himself clean of the dirt, saw him leave wordlessly. 

That wasn’t like Dismas.

“Can we count you in, Reynauld?” 

William was kind, patient, when the Crusader turned to him and asked him to repeat himself. He and Boudica had been making plans for their boar hunt, to which Junia politely declined, saying she had business with the Heir and finding a nurse for the sanitarium, which the kid was _obsessed_ with for some reason. The Houndmaster seemed to think they could manage fine with just the three of them, and after one last glance to Dismas’ retreating back, stiff and ramrod, shambling to the tavern…

Reynauld nodded his assent. “Very well.”

~~~~~

The next day started early, which was fine with Reynauld. He had awoken with enough time to recite his verses, prepare his buffs, meticulously equip his new armor piece by piece; it was a ritual of habit by now, but it still managed to ease his worried mind. Before he finished his morning routine, he lowered his voice and said a quick prayer for Dismas, asking the Light to watch over him in Reynauld’s absence while the Highwayman still suffered from the ocean’s strange trance. When he left the room to meet William and Boudica, Reynauld paused at Dismas’ door and wondered what the odds were that the other man was sleeping.

Judging by the sound on the other side of the door, not good.

The latch turned and the door swung open and Reynauld felt caught red handed, a deer in the lamplight -- which was ridiculous. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, he wasn’t intruding, so he had no reason to feel the strange tension in the air as he looked to Dismas’ tired eyes. 

By the way Dismas peered up at him in an empty glare, Reynauld wasn’t the only one to feel the strain between them. 

“You leaving?”

Reynauld was taken aback, just for a moment, then he set his mouth in a line and nodded. Before he could bother to ask, Dismas shrugged his shoulder lazily, red-rimmed eyes elsewhere in that typical nonchalance the Highwayman loved to flaunt. “Junia told me.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow. Try not to do anything reckless while I’m gone, okay?” 

Even Reynauld could hear the patronizing inflection to his words, regardless of whether he intended it or not, and Dismas’ earth-scorched gaze sparked back to life with molten anger and Reynauld winced. He had never been a man of tact, or so he had been told, and whatever soft moment that could have been shared between them in the early morning was lost to the flash of brown meeting his muted grey. 

“I don’t need you _coddling_ me, you know.”

“I know,” Reynauld spoke quickly to make amends before he left. “I just -- ”

“And I _don’t_ need you constantly checking on me, like during my sparring match yesterday.”

“I know.” The Crusader fell silent at that, letting Dismas vent his irritation. It wasn’t misplaced, he knew, as he recalled the way everyone doted on him after his recovery from malaria some weeks prior. He had snapped at Dismas then, when Dismas had done nothing worse than what he was doing now.

“And I certainly don’t need your _prayers_.”

Reynauld exhaled through his nose and grimaced at the words flung like a red hot accusation; and here he thought he was being discreet with his gentle prayer for the man. A moment passed between them, hot and alive and expectant, and Reynauld swallowed his pride as thickly as tallow -- any other man would not have been so lucky as to tame his tongue, but Dismas deserved more than his unsolicited cosseting as if he were something helpless. 

"I'm sorry."

A touch of surprise loosened his scowl, as if he’d been expecting ire instead, and Dismas' darkened eyes melted into something softer, just slightly, just enough to be recognizable to Reynauld after so much time with Dismas' irritable nuances. After a long, still moment passed between them, he nodded and spoke, "...You'd better be careful, too. Try not to get mauled to death without me there to save your ass.”

The tension was gone as quickly as it came, and the corners of Reynauld’s mouth quirked into a smile, as did the Highwayman’s, which was a rarity lately. The two men parted, then, Dismas shrinking back into his room and Reynauld taking to the stairs, chastising himself for being a sodding, smiling, indulgent _fool_. For overthinking things in so many ways. Dismas hadn’t slept-walked since that first incident -- hadn’t really _slept_ for more than a couple of hours at a time, it seemed -- so Reynauld forced his thoughts from the matter.

Meanwhile, William and Boudica were at the bridge, packs full and weapons ready, and Laika perked up at his heavy footsteps as he approached.

…

A single long, melodious note from William’s hunting horn broke through the still forest of the weald, a fanfare announcing their arrival. It was low and brassy, a rallying sound that stirred something primal in both Boudica and Laika, by the way attuned to it, that reverberated through Reynauld’s full plate. 

Laika was off, then, a wordless command in that slow, sonorous sound as she stalked into the overgrowth with her tail out and ears back. 

It was time to hunt some game.

William followed after her and they followed William, cudgel out and ready as they kept pace with the wolfhound who held her nose to the ground, stopped, changed direction, sniffed at some underbrush, and changed direction once more. Reynauld had some experience with trapping from his time in the Crusades and before as a simple farmer, but had never hunted with a hound and wasn’t sure what to expect.

Their quarry was a wild boar, large and brave and brainless enough to come to the relative outskirts of the weald, mean enough to have survived thus far. William had caught sight of it some days before mucking about in the dense thicket, and with the Heir too distracted to send out additional expeditions with the sanitarium’s reopening, it left them to their own devices. 

For hours, they stayed like this, with Laika smelling every possible incongruity and William stopping to kneel and examine -- rocks, bushes, trees, _everything_. They moved silently through the Weald, progress slow going and as the sun reached into the sky, Reynauld’s patience was starting to fray. He had expected them to find something by now, to find _anything_ by now, as they wandered deeper into the mushroom forest, and his distant mind vaguely wandered to the last time he was here, months back, just him and Dismas.

He had been following the tracks of the Shambler, the blood smears, the upturned trees, the violence incarnate. For days after their near-death, Reynauld had been antsy to take to the trail, restless and agitated at the thought of losing his monstrous foe.

But something nagged him to stay instead.

Something in his psyche uncovered the long-buried, cracked and forlorn sense of self-preservation that he once held and thought gone to the void by now. 

Something that lay unconscious and destitute in the Plague Doctor’s clinic, something that sneered at him one moment then saved his life the next. Against the two brigands, against the Shambler, and later against the fierce mushroom-infected corpse. 

Perhaps Dismas hadn’t been the only one with a streak of recklessness, as it may be.

“What is it, girl?”

William stopped short behind Laika, who was on high alert at their helm, and Boudica and Reynauld pulled up beside him. The wolfhound was stopped at a relatively fresh looking pile of dung, which was at least _something_ after hours without a trail. Reynauld didn’t mind being out in William and Boudica’s company, but remembering the fungal scratcher he happened upon here in the weald didn’t do anything to help his nerves, and remembering Dismas’ affliction back home did nothing good for his patience.

“If this beast is as big as it shits, we’ll be feasting for days!” Boudica bared her teeth in a smile. 

The ex-lawman chuckled a mellow laugh that bristled his blond whiskers upwards, tossing a treat from his pouch to Laika for her find. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ve got to catch the thing first. And speaking of which…” He turned and sized the two of them up, thoughtful, and continued, “Boudica has a better weapon for delivering the killing blow. Reynauld, how ‘bout you and I give chase and guide the bastard to Boudica when we finally pin ‘em down?”

Honestly, Reynauld wasn’t exactly sure what was required for the position, but if it were anything like routing the enemies during the Crusades, then he could be confident enough in his skill and nodded, which William clapped him on the shoulder for. 

After refreshing off of water and wine, in Boudica’s case, they continued their search down the trail Laika set them on. Reynauld was almost grateful for the slight sense of haste added to their steps now, if not for the fact that it brought them further into darker parts of the growing forest. The midday sun broke through the treetops, but only barely with how tall and thick the foliage surrounding them was. It felt damp, cool and as if the atmosphere were muted by a slight mist. 

Before long, Reynauld started to notice just how silent the forest around them was; he wasn’t the only one, apparently, and sensed Boudica square her shoulders at his side. 

“Your forest here is quiet,” she noted, voice stiff as her glaive, and Reynauld looked to her past the slit in his visor.

“It’s unsettling, yes.”

She shook her head, long red tail swaying at the back of her partially shaved head, mouth drawn and words a whisper. “ _It is a bad omen_. The spirits of the forest only flee when there is a predatory nearby.”

Reynauld raised his brow at that, a gesture which was lost behind his bascinet. “And if that ‘predator’ is simply _us_?”

“Or the boar, with any luck,” William added in from ahead of them.

Boudica seemed unconvinced, shoulders still straightened, eyes grim, glaive at the ready. “ _Ab’roh hakka_ , hope and pray for luck all you like, but the ancestors have already forsaken us when even the birds have abandoned the very trees.” Reynauld stifled the chill he felt at her words, made worse when he became hyper aware of the too-still, too-quiet woods surrounding them. It brought him back to the hushed moments right before that fungal scratcher had lumbered out of the trees and surprised him, it’s deformed body hard as stone against his startled fists. He would not be taken by surprise so easily this time.

Not even a few yards later, William held out an arm and said, “Stop.” His back was stooped over something Laika had found, blocking it from view. The dog herself was all tense muscles, flank hair on end, hackles raised, but silent as the grave.

“More dung?” Reynauld asked, knowing better but stilling his nerves.

"No," came the murmured response, distracted as he reached to pick it up and turn it over in his hands, once, twice, before showing it to them.

It was… a bloodied fetish. A straw idol weaved into the shape of a man with twine around its neck, arms, and legs and appeared to be cut in multiple places. The blood on it was both dried and fresh, _horrifyingly_ fresh for where they found themselves within the desolate weald, far from town. Reynauld looked up, immediately on high alert, hand at his sword with an eager and steady grip. There were strange growths of fetid mushrooms in an odd path from where they stood, in a pattern nearly akin to footsteps if not for the rot they carved into the earth. 

Whatever left this here had left it recently. 

Suddenly, Laika growled, deep and low and threatening, hair raised and head bowed. Her tail was tucked between her legs despite the viciousness of her snarl, and William knitted his bushy brows at her, then looked towards where the fungus and decay trailed off into the trees. "You hear something, girl?" He put a hand on her back in a comforting way, though Reynauld wasn’t sure if it was intended for him or the hound. It did nothing to lower the tension thick in the air, heavy in the misty gloom, and Laika bared her teeth to whatever threat lay beyond the brier. 

Reynauld could hear something, too, rustling in the leaves and disturbing the mist, just beyond their vision, and slowly drew his sword with a muted _hiss_.

_"Sic 'em."_

The command was hushed, soft-spoken but firm and Laika lunged into the forest with a feral roar as if finally unleashed upon the weald monstrosities. She bounded away, quicker than Reynauld could have imagined with the dense foliage, and William hurried after her though they eventually lost sight of the wolfhound altogether and stuck to the path the Laika forged. The three of them tailed her, albeit slowly, with Reynauld hacking at wayward brambles with an unsteady irritation bubbling within him. 

A boar. They had wandered far deeper into the weald than Reynauld ever cared to, for a _boar_ that they had only found traces of shit as to its existence. And now he was filled with that sense of dread before bloodshed, the calm before the storm that hollowed his bones, blanked his mind, sharpened his senses.

Laika howled, then, and William pulled out his hunting horn to howl back with that same long, baritone note from before that seemed to mean something to the hound. They clambered on, faster and less careful, clothes getting caught and feet slipping in the mushroom soil, when suddenly Laika yelped, sharply, in the far distance and yowled a panicked noise -- even Reynauld could tell by the mere tone she cried, and William forced them forward in haste. The Houndmaster sounded his call again, only this time he blew the horn in two short, distinctive blasts. 

They burst into a clearing, and once more, Reynauld was taken back to his struggle against the Eldritch corpse some months prior. The clearing itself was empty, but there were tracks in the dirt, fresh and disturbed by both pig hooves and paw prints. 

The paw prints were fresh; perhaps Laika had found the boar after all. 

Not a second later, they heard her baying from somewhere behind them, far, lone, chilling, and shared a worried glance. Whatever made these paw prints had _not_ been Laika.

While their attention was turned, Reynauld caught a flash of movement just outside of the clearing and was on guard, soon followed by Boudica and William. A low growl, then, just yards away. A snarling sound, deep and strange even compared to Laika's, echoed before them in the direction of the paw prints, then again to the side of them. Whatever they had been hunting had apparently been hunting _them_ as well. 

The three of them stood in a triangle as they were circled by that rumbling tremor, back and forth, surrounding them, and held their weapons outstretched. More movement at Reynauld’s left, then his right, and he couldn’t catch a glimpse long enough to --

Something emerged in a harrying lunge from the fringe of the clearing and Reynauld was ready for it, sword raised, but then hesitated -- _Laika?_ No. 

Another hound rushed him as well from the opposite side, maw snapping viciously as it jumped and barreled into him. Reynauld blocked with his gauntlet and grunted, the first dog coming up to gnash at his leg, but Boudica was there in an instant, slicing into the mutt’s ribcage; it should have been a killing blow if not for the bones already being exposed. 

A quick punch with his free hand sent the hound latched to his arm flying and Reynauld righted himself once more, alert, ready for more to pour through the trees. What he noticed unsettled him -- each wild dog that appeared from the brush was in varying states of decay. One had only bones and tendons for back legs, another had an exposed ribcage with its innards barely intact, another was flayed and skinned in various parts along its back. 

All of them frothed at the mouth and rolled their eyes wildly as they attacked again.

“ _They’re rabid!_ ” William shouted, clearly having noticed the same thing. The dog that Reynauld had punched could no longer bite, its jaw having been partially torn and lolled out its tongue, but it pounced and clawed and spit regardless. There were only four of them, but with their speed, voracity, and seemingly inability to feel any kind of pain made their pack frustrating and _dangerous_. Reynauld couldn’t seem to land a hit on one, each dog bounding away before he could finish a swing of his sword. 

He vaguely wished Dismas were here with his keen dodge and vicious accuracy.

“What unnatural will guides them?” Boudica shouted as she swung, missed, cursed. They were too quick even for her glaive, but she was graceful as she sidestepped one’s attack. “How do they still live while rotting away?”

It wasn’t unlike the fetid mushroom zombie that Reynauld had grappled with, which had arisen with the full moon, according to Paracelsus’ research long ago, and with the help of blood magic, according to Alhazred’s nightly communes. These creatures from the weald were unnatural, undead and as if all of their faculties had emboldened beyond what was possible -- the fungal scratcher with its inhuman strength and protection, these rabid hounds with their evasion and agility.

Eventually, Reynauld managed to kick one’s legs out from under it, snapping them like twigs, and ended it with a _stab_ through the neck with his zweihander, but it meant breaking formation. The remaining three animals bounded together, foaming and snarling and entirely unphased by the corpse of the fallen fourth. 

Something tall rustled in the bushes near the clearing, taller than the dogs that hounded them, and Reynauld dreaded whatever new inhuman creature approached them now. Did these hounds have a master? And could they handle whomever it was while avoiding rabid maws?

A moment later, a thick tendril glinted from the trees, long, fluid, unfurling and for a moment, Reynauld feared it was a cultist witch with her tentacle magic, until it cracked at one of the dogs sharply and stunned it with a whimper. A long chain whipped back to the trees and from the shadows stepped a familiar gaunt face, contorted in an animalistic fury, scarred down one side and teeth bared savagely. 

_Bigby?_

Reynauld didn’t have time to wonder how the man made it out all this way within the weald, couldn’t stop to scrutinize his teeth which looked far too large and pointed to be human, could only focus on the wild mutts still harrying him. One snarled and lunged at his face, only to be deflected with a harsh backhand into Boudica’s swinging range who gored it in half with a singular strike from her glaive. Bigby crushed one creature’s head in with his heavy chain, splashing them with warm viscera that went unnoticed as the remaining hound bypassed Reynauld’s sword, dodged Bigby who was lashing his chain like a ringmaster, disregarded the loud _yawp_ from Boudica.

That ferocious maw lunged at Reynauld, too quick for him to get his sword up and too fierce for him to effectively block, then felt hot spittle through the slot in his visor as the dog took hold of his shoulder and thrashed with a rabid frenzy.

Before the beast could find a hold of flesh, Reynauld heard William whistle sharply, which blessedly seemed to catch the dog’s attention as it found a new target. The weight and stench was gone from Reynauld’s body abruptly as it came, but when William swung his club at the mongrel, it dodged, lunged, mauled him to the ground with a heavy _thud_. By a split second, the Houndmaster managed to get his arm up in time to block his face, but the foam and drool and blood mixed together as the wild dog gored past his guard, into the meat of his forearm. 

The lawman cried out in pain as his arm was shredded, and before any of them could act, another hound joined their ranks with a bellowing snarl.

_Laika_ leapt from the foliage and tore into the creature who had William pinned, relentless in her attack, rolling to the upturned earth with it struggling, wailing in her jaws and didn't stop her onslaught until the wild mutt's throat was dangling from her red muzzle. All four beasts lay still and bloodied and rotted then, bodies falling apart from decay and froth still spilling from their blackened gums. The frenzy ended as abruptly as it began, an unsettled hush falling around them as the aftermath of an ambush, disrupted only by their heavy breathing. 

“Thanks, girl,” William finally spoke, beckoning to his wolfhound -- who dropped the tendoned meat in her maw and trotted over obediently -- to pat her on the neck with his good arm. His other arm was gored open and he held it gingerly, grimacing at the sight of it as it bled freely into the muck.

“ _William_ , isn’t it?” Bigby asked as he drew close. “You’re, ah, wounded.”

Reynauld stepped in front of him before he could come any closer to the fallen Houndmaster, not entirely unconvinced that the thin man hadn’t looked momentarily inhuman amidst the chaos. He had been warned by the abbot that this ‘abomination’ was not to be trusted, not to be welcomed into the chantry or welcomed in the presence of the holy having sold his soul to the service of something foul and perverse. As such, Reynauld eyed him with suspicion and straightened his shoulders, impeding his advance. 

“Come no closer, beast.”

The Abomination recoiled from the obvious disdain, ducking his head far enough that his hair covered one eye, as if to escape Reynauld’s scorn.

Boudica was quick to intervene with a hiss, sauntering up to Reynauld and kicking past the corpse of a fallen mongrel as she did so. When she spoke, her voice was rough, challenging, thick arms bloody and flexed, “This puny man aided us in our hour of need, and now you _spurn_ him?”

The man Bigby looked just as confused as Reynauld felt, but the Crusader simply said, “We never _asked_ for his help. We could have managed.”

“Aye,” Boudica spat. “Or we could’ve all ended up mauled like William here.”

The foul beasts had been hard to hit, harder to avoid, and their bite was as mean as they appeared. Having Bigby there to help manage the crowd had been helpful, Reynauld would admit to himself, but to no one else. Whatever vicious response he might have defended his holy actions with was lost when William groaned out in pain, clutching his bloody arm, and Laika laid next to him loyally. 

“He needs…” Bigby started, paused, looked to Reynauld, then down again. He was scared to speak, clearly, but swallowed and tried again. “We should get him, hum… That is to say, does anyone here know first aid?”

Boudica shrugged her broad shoulders and the two looked to Reynauld. _Yes_ , Reynauld knew a weak healing spell of old, back in his wartime days, but he wasn’t sure it would help William with the state he was in. It was made for simple aches and pains, nothing grievous, and regardless, those undead hounds seemed diseased, and nothing in the Crusades could have taught Reynauld how to cure rabies. Instead, he merely shook his head, and Bigby huffed.

“You should come with me, then,” the demon spoke, words halting and unsure as if he were afraid of retribution just for uttering them. “I… ah, I _know_ someone who could…” He paused again, bundled himself closer in his rags, ducked his head further. “Who might be able to help, you see.”

Reynauld was hesitant. He didn’t trust the man half as far as he could throw him, and the way Bigby had just appeared out of the woods had been… _unsettling_ at best. 

They were without bandages or supplies outside of what was needed for their boar hunt, and they hadn’t been able to sway Junia into joining, not with her duties to the Heir and Hamlet. William needed assistance, as soon as was possible if not at least to treat his bite for rabies, and taking him back to the Hamlet would mean all but abandoning this boar hunt, which Reynauld was fine with if it came down to that or saving William’s life. 

But that would mean this had all been for naught.

William seemed to be losing blood quickly, so Reynauld conceded and nodded. “ _Fine_.”

…

Whatever Reynauld had been expecting, it wasn’t _this_. 

Bigby led them to a repurposed brigand camp in a small clearing, hidden by a cliff overhang for shelter, a lit campfire tucked in the concave crag. The trees surrounding the glave were scarred with deep gashes, littering the forest floor with broken branches, and the rocky cliff face itself was also scored with marks. Some appeared older than others. Two large logs were fashioned as benches near the fire and seated on one was…

...a woman, perhaps. Possibly a man, Reynauld couldn’t be sure by the way they were hunched over, body hidden by a large cowl and coat fashioned from a wolf pelt with the gaping head still attached.

They straightened immediately and their hand went to a gun at their side, quicker than Reynauld had seen of anyone who wasn’t Dismas, and he was momentarily impressed before raising his hands in a show of goodwill. William did the same with his only functional hand, Laika growled at the sign of aggression and Boudica leveled her glaive, but Bigby stepped between them as if to settle any sudden violence that might break out.

“ _Peace_ ,” he chided, but the person across the camp didn’t seem to relax, so neither did Reynauld or Boudica. “Please, d-don’t worry! They’re…” The Abomination paused, looked to the group as if unsure, then cleared his voice. “Th-They’re friends of mine.”

The man -- woman -- _stranger_ , Reynauld corrected himself -- eased up only slightly at Bigby’s words, but kept their hand at the gun, and narrowed their eyes at the intruders. A tense moment passed before Boudica lowered her glaive and shoved through, stepping up to the campfire -- which caused everyone to stiffen -- then suddenly plopped down on the log with a huff. The moment passed, albeit slowly, and the tension was broken. 

“And we’re half-starved from chasing our tails all afternoon. Have you got any meat?” she asked, hand still on her glaive but no longer poised for violence. 

Bigby smiled, just slightly as the awkwardness bled away in the face of the wild Hellion’s hunger, and stepped up to the campfire as well. “We have some, ah, rations we can spare,” but then he stopped and looked up to his quiet friend perched on the opposite log from them. “R-Right?” 

Reynauld wasn’t sure who this stranger was, but they seemed fond enough of the Abomination to nod in consent, then reached into their pack and withdrew a small bundle of rations. William joined them next, looking paler for the lack of blood and took the ration gratefully with Laika at his side, wary of the new face still covered in shadows but no less friendly. Bigby took a seat next at the unknown’s side, gaunt face thrown with shadows from the flickering campfire, the long chains snaking down his arms now covered in blood from their fight.

The demon had helped to save them, _twice_ by taking them to his camp that he seemingly shared with the stranger.

It was twilight now, and already there was a damp chill in the air of an autumn forest that pricked at Reynauld’s skin beneath his armor. 

Eventually, still with a nagging sense of reluctance, Reynauld lowered his hands and nodded, then removed his bascinet stepped and forward to the fire; it was a familiar feeling, a kind warmth in the dreary dark of enemy territory, and at times was the only thing to keep him sound of mind. He rejected the stranger’s ration in favor of his own packed away in his belongings, which might have been rude, but could have been smart -- the hooded character’s intentions remained to be seen. Bigby clearly trusted them, but that didn’t exactly speak lengths in the Crusader’s book and he held onto his reservations. 

“You’re bleeding,” came the soft voice from under the heavy cowl. It was quiet, slightly effeminate, but gave Reynauld no actual indication of what lay beneath the cloak and he supposed it didn’t really matter, so long as this stranger meant them no harm. 

William managed a smile, but was clearly fading. “Aye, the wolves out here are as mean as they look.”

The person snorted, muttering “ _You have no idea_ ,” under their breath, then raised their voice and sized each of them up past the flames. “I take it none of you dullards can stitch a wound?” When no response came other than Boudica boasting her ability to _inflict_ bleed, they made a tutting noise then rummaged in their pack once more until they pulled out a spool of thread and a curved needle, holding it up to the firelight to examine it under a practiced eye. “I’m quick with a stitch, if you’ll hold still,” to which William gave a shaky nod of his head.

Slowly, they rose and Reynauld instinctively sized them up -- taller than Dismas, though that wasn’t saying much -- and watched as they tossed a flask at their hip to William, who fumbled it clumsily with his one working hand. A sloshing came from within, and the Houndmaster took a quick, polite swig and offered his thanks to the stranger now at his side.

Laika watched them approach with raised hackles and William soothed her with a command, but the wolfhound didn’t relax as the stranger kneeled down, plucked the flask from William’s hand, and washed the gaping wound with a quick rinse of clear liquor. 

A shout of pain broke the encroaching night before William could grit his teeth, and a threatening growl followed, the dog’s blood-dried maw bared at the outsider heating the needle near the coals of the campfire. They hummed, clearly unimpressed, and warned, “Control your mutt if you want me to care for this.” William grabbed Laika’s collar, hushing her once more, then nodded. “And unless you want the brigands or worse at our door, you’ll keep quiet.”

The process was a slow thing, _agonized_ by the look on Williams face, contorted and jaw grinding to stay still and silent, and Reynauld worried the other man might bite through his tongue. Without saying a word, and with a quick hand, Reynauld unclasped his belt and yanked it free from his tabard which fell loosely on him, then handed the leather to William who took it gratefully. His kind eyes said what his gritted mouth couldn’t, and before the stranger could begin the next stitch into the length of his wound, William clenched the belt between his teeth and closed his eyes. 

Reynauld watched their steady hand, nimble as it laced the thread through the jagged flesh of the wound, closing it inch by inch; they noticed his stare and shrugged, as if reading the praise he would never give them. “You fools are useless if you know nothing of triage. Even great wounds are treatable by those who know the slightest bit of first aid.”

Their scathing remark had some truth to it, much as Reynauld was reluctant to admit, as he remembered back when Dismas had been pummeled by the bone rabble army when they had faced down the Necromancer. 

The Crusader had felt helpless as he watched the thin man fade out against the stones, then later wrought with anger and impatience as he waited for Paracelsus and Junia to heal Dismas back to cognizance. He had secretly sworn to be more careful, to heed the Highwayman’s proclivity to run off by himself and all but begged Dismas to stay close for their next Eldritch fight. If he had more experience with _helping_ instead of _harming_ , perhaps Reynauld wouldn’t need to rely so heavily on the others when things went sideways and someone ended up broken and bleeding.

Especially if that someone were Dismas. 

“ _There_. Try not to move it much,” they huffed gently. William thanked them, but they ignored it with a wave of their hand and asked, “Do you want me to patch your mutt, too?” William gave the stranger a surprised look, then turned to Laika -- who favored her back right leg as she stood loyally at William’s side, and upon further inspection, had an open gash in her flank. They had all been too focused on William to notice and she gave no sign of needing attention while William was operated on.

“Was she bitten?” Reynauld asked, but the hooded figure shook their head.

“Looks like a knife wound to me.”

The group fell to silence as a stunned William allowed the stranger to bandage Laika, albeit slowly while he kept her muzzled in the crook of his arm. When would the wolfhound have been stabbed, and by whom? It had to have been when she was off on her own, when Reynauld and the others had faced down the pack of rabid dogs and Laika had howled and whimpered in the distance.

Whatever Laika had found so far from them, it wasn’t another dog. It wasn’t a fox, or hare and it wasn’t the boar they hunted.

Reynauld thought back to the bloodied fetish that William had shown them hours earlier, still fresh with slick crimson and the mushroom-rotted patterns in the forest floor that led from the abandoned straw idol. He was unsettled, gone from the Light that he was, lost to the dark within the strange weald so unlike any other forest he had been in.

Whatever Laika had found, whatever left her with that knife wound, it was still out there, and Reynauld glanced around them, uneasy, until his eyes inadvertently flicked upwards...

...and saw that the moon was almost full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the rework I did, this took forever to come to life but I hope it was still enjoyable. I took a look at my timeline and while yes, the Siren is still coming up, I felt like I needed to foreshadow more plot points and also have a couple bonding chapters before shit eventually hits the fan.


	19. Revelry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot cooking an entire animal whole is a day long process, so I kindly, shamefully ask you to suspend your disbelief for that.

**Revelry**

Night had fallen in full, casting the world around them in a seedy dark cloak that seemed to encroach even upon the fire. The stranger, who had expertly sewn and wrapped William’s arm and bandaged Laika, sat next to Bigby, still huddled under their cloak and watching the others warily, which Reynauld snorted at. 

“You have a name?”

His words broke the silence, but Reynauld didn’t care; if he were to sleep next to this mysterious person tonight, along with the demon in chains, he felt entitled to ask questions.

They shifted, uncomfortably so, and glared up at him with their sharp eyes. “None for the likes of you lot.”

It was curt and clipped and Reynauld frowned deeply at it, but Bigby just held his long, thin hands up in a surprisingly pacifying way, as if to excuse the stranger’s tone. “They don’t like -- ” He tucked his hands in, suddenly shy as if speaking out of turn, and Reynauld turned his gaze to the frail man which didn’t seem to help. “What I mean is, they’re very… p-private. When I asked them their name, that is, when we first met weeks ago -- they told me to be quiet.” Bigby laughed at that, a soft nervous sound as if explaining an inside joke that only he was savvy to. “So that’s what I’ve been calling them. ‘Quiet’.”

Quiet turned to glance at him, not with a smile, not _exactly_ , but with less distaste than they looked to the rest of the gathering with. So the two of them had spent weeks out here, this far into the weald? It explained Bigby’s constant and sporadic disappearances from the Hamlet.

“ _Well_ , Quiet,” William interjected whatever questions plagued Reynauld, voice friendly enough, affable as ever. “You seem awfully capable out here. Like you’ve had formal training.”

Their attention snapped back to William, frowning at the implication that so obviously laced his tone -- this _Quiet_ fellow had managed to survive out in the weald, despite all of the deadly strangeness over the months, and could even stitch a man back together on the spot. Whomever they were, whatever their past, they clearly knew how to handle their own and with an air of finesse so rare to these parts that it left Reynauld equally suspicious.

“As a survivalist, I know a great many skills,” Quiet huffed.

“They’ve been teaching me helpful skills of my own, you see, b-b-breathing techniques and the like,” explained Bigby with a small smile, which crumbled when the Survivalist affixed him with a flat stare. That answered Reynauld’s next question, at least, as to what the two had been doing out here, so far detached from society, but he vaguely wondered why Bigby _needed_ the seclusion in the first place. 

The marks on the trees and stone weighed heavily in the dark and in his mind, as he remembered the abbot’s condemnation of those called ‘abominations’ and said a quick prayer to the Light. 

“Could you teach _us_?” the Hellion piped in, and William nodded as well.

Quiet hesitated, so the Houndmaster added, “I’m quite sure the Heir would let you stay in the Hamlet’s barracks if so. There’s plenty of room.”

The offer was kind and friendly and ever-accommodating, as was William’s nature, especially after this mysterious figure just mended his dog and his arm back together, but Quiet shook their head beneath the large hood that still obscured them. “No,” their soft voice was firm. “No, if I’m to teach anyone additional skills, it will be on my terms, here in the forest -- _and_ for quite a sum of gold. ”

It was an idea that Reynauld tucked away for later, wondering what else this Survivalist could teach the heroes of the Hamlet, when Bigby spoke again. "So are the three of you on a…" he paused again in that halting way of his that left Reynauld impatient for the point. "An expedition?"

"No. We are on the _hunt_ ," answered Boudica with a grin.

"For a boar, as it were. The Heir is throwing a feast tomorrow night," the Houndmaster explained, then gestured to Bigby and Quiet still perched across the flames. "The two of you should join in -- assuming we can corner the blasted thing." A look of recognition glanced across Quiet’s trim face and they sat up straighter, shrugging the stuffed wolf head of their pelt coat down their shoulder with the movement.

“Is that so? Bigby and I have been tracking the same quarry,” they said. “We’ve lured it to this part of the weald, but I fear we may be overwhelmed with just the two of us. It might be better to hunt as a pack.”

Although it made sense, Reynauld was wary -- of the stranger, of the abomination, of their surroundings -- but this wasn’t his call to make; he knew the Heir was testing the lawman by placing the command of the hunt to William, so Reynauld deferred judgment. The Houndmaster looked to him anyway, then to Boudica for any sign of contention, and nodded when he found none. “It’s settled, then. We’d be lucky to have you two join us.”

Bigby smiled at that, but Quiet spoke up, affixing each person in camp with a careful scrutiny. “I will feel better hunting together knowing all of you can tend to wounds, if need be.”

Again, it wasn’t a bad idea, and despite Reynauld’s reservations towards the stranger in the woods, he leaned closer as Quiet took the stage and showed each of them how to properly manage a wound. Their long fingers were deft and agile, practiced, and though Reynauld was familiar with basic first aid, the small healing spell he had learned in the Crusades had felt weakened, damn near useless for combat as if he’d fallen out of favor with the Light. Bandages and salves were a practical alternative, until he could effectively manage his battle heal once more.

By the time they had Quiet’s confidence in simple medical attention, the firewood had flickered down to embers, casting the small space in a soft glow, and Reynauld spoke. “Now let us decide who gets first watch. The last thing we need out here is an ambush in the night.”

~~~~~

“Off with you, girl!” came the firm command that sent Laika stalking low through the brush ahead of their hunting party, nose to the ground like a predator with a mark. “Find what foe awaits us.”

It was barely midmorning and they had already made significant progress compared to the day before now that they were working with Quiet and Bigby. The pair of outcasts were far more hushed and withdrawn than their two louder counterparts, who both seemed enthralled by the nearing end of the hunt, Reynauld noted. 

“ _Spirits claim me_ , we will have our feast yet!” the Hellion said through a ravenous smile. She had taken time to apply fresh war paint this morning while Reynauld was trying to meditate, which apparently had required her to shrug out of her fur-lined top entirely to do so. As a soldier, Reynauld had little regard for nudity at camp, but the wild woman seemed to have even less so as she strutted around naked from the waist up. William had politely averted his eyes, Bigby busied himself in readying the remaining provisions with reddened ears, and Quiet had wrinkled their nose at Boudica’s immodesty. 

Now, she walked ahead with Quiet and Bigby, tailing the trail that the wolfhound had led through the brush while Reynauld stayed back a ways, held down by his armor compared to the others. William hung back with him and gingerly held his freshly-stitched arm. 

Reynauld cleared his throat then, ending the companionable silence between him and William. “Thanks for calling that wild dog off of me yesterday, by the way." 

“It was nothing,” the Houndmaster waved with his good arm. “I just wish I had managed to hit the blasted thing when I caught it’s attention.” Quiet had rewrapped the bandages that morning, then mentioned something about William needing to be checked for rabies and absently, Reynauld was grateful that the sanitarium was being reopened. The Heir had been hellbent on it recently, dedicating time, money, and supplies to it with an awakened fervor. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if it might help Dismas with his strange obsession. The way the Highwayman had nearly clawed through his door, the way he was constantly on high alert now, the way he had completely _withdrawn_ from Reynauld and their friendship… 

It was _irritating_ just how helpless Reynauld felt. 

An elbow in his side brought him back and he realized, sheepishly, that William had been speaking about the trials of the hunt as they trailed the others in their group. “Do you want to rest? You seem distracted.”

“No,” the Crusader cleared his throat, shook himself of his nagging thoughts, recentered himself with a mental verse. “Someone back at the Hamlet has also been unwell, is all.”

William was silent, but when he finally spoke, his voice was gentle. “That brigand lad?”

“Ex-brigand,” Reynauld warned.

“‘Course,” laughed William, and quickly corrected himself. “Sorry, must be the old lawman in me. What is he ailed by?”

Reynauld shook his head, pensive for a moment. “I’m not sure yet.” _It’s just a bout of sleepwalking,_ Dismas had insisted, stubborn, frantic. Reynauld wasn’t oblivious, he _knew_ whatever was happening to the man was something Eldritch in nature, _knew_ the look Paracelsus had given him that night was a dire one, but that only heightened Reynauld’s preoccupation. Unnerved, he suddenly glanced to William, then wondered aloud, “And how did you know?”

The Houndmaster just shrugged his good arm and gave Reynauld a look as if it were obvious. “You’ve been hanging around the lad as if he were a lost pup. I assumed it were either to keep him in line or because something was wrong.”

A _laugh_ , then. Reynauld couldn’t help it, couldn’t help the bellow of laughter that echoed past his bascinet, tense as he was, wound tight from the stress of the past few days, of the Hamlet that held hinted horrors around every corner. “I assure you, after months of trying, there isn’t much one can do to keep Dismas in line.”

William smiled at him, at the apparent break in tension. “Well, he’s hung around long enough that _something_ must be keeping him here.”

Before Reynauld could process those implications and wholeheartedly deny them, before he could insist that the gold, the women, the _morality_ were all deciding factors in whether or not Dismas stayed, a hush came from ahead of him. Quiet and Boudica were both glaring at him for his outburst, but Bigby was turned and focused on something unseen, head cocked, focused. Suddenly, a loud and distinctive _howl_ broke the silence and William tensed, grinned, pulled out his hunting horn and blew the same, meaningful note back.

“The trail ends, the quarry knows it’s caught!”

…

After almost a day and a half of tracking, of darkened woods and smogged soil, of glancing at every shadow they passed and straining their senses at every bit of noise or movement in their peripherals, the end of the hunt came fairly quickly.

Laika had howled two more times, enough for them to find fresh prints and tusk marks and upturned earth, and it was then that William commanded their formation. They stayed downwind from the beast, tagging close enough that as soon as Laika had directed it towards a cliff face, they made their move. 

Reynauld stuck to his pincer formation as they had planned, but with William’s arm injured, left Bigby to fill the gap -- there wasn’t enough time to protest it from either of them.

When they finally caught sight of the boar through the lush thicket, Reynauld was surprised by just how _massive_ it was _,_ its thick body tearing through the bark of the trees, those wicked tusks shredding apart whatever was in its path. It tried to gore Laika, who growled and snarled and bit at its ankles, driving it on, and it turned and squealed and charged any time one of their hunting party came too close. Rocks and dirt were flung up from those vicious hooves, trampling the earth as it searched for its escape, and Laika narrowly avoided getting stomped.

Wild and frenzied, the boar turned from the path it was put on to rush at Reynauld unexpectedly, and being close enough the beast was nearly as tall as his waist and twice as wide. It squealed a terrible sound, and for a moment, Reynauld was taken back to the pits of the Swine King. He prepared for impact, for his sword to parry those tusks and to hopefully come away mostly unscathed, but then --

_Crack!_

Something shot out from his left and stalled the boar, just for a moment, and glinted in the bits of afternoon sun that broke through the treeline. Bigby swung his chain once more and with a roar, drove the colossal animal away from the Crusader, back to Laika who continued the trek towards the cliff wall where Boudica and Quiet awaited it. The baying of the hound, the pounding in his chest, in his head and in his throat _._ The adrenaline as the boar turned abruptly and charged once more, skidding off the sharpened edge of Reynauld’s blade and searing liquid heat across the earth with a _schick_ of his zweihander.

Blood on his gauntlets, grin on his face -- Reynauld felt _alive._

There were more close calls after that, with the feral pig storming any who came into its line of sight; it took almost an hour, wild as the boar was, squealing a maddening sound through the mushroom forest that it destroyed branch by branch as it was slashed, bit, whipped.

Until eventually, Quiet called the shot and Boudica responded with a deadly _thrust_ of her spear, sticking the pig with a vicious roar that could be heard even over the ringing death rattle of the boar. It squealed as it died, thrashing closer to Boudica who just bellowed back and somehow held her ground against hundreds of pounds of raging meat. The blood pooled at its hooves, steaming the dirt, and its eyes spun madly; it spit as it screamed once more, then fell to its side with a shake of the earth, nearly taking Boudica with it.

A deathly hush fell across the forest then, each one of them poised and tense, still in formation, Reynauld’s sword outstretched, Boudica’s hands and arms flexed around the glaive buried in the pig, Quiet with gun drawn and eyes sharp.

…Then, a melodious sound cut the clearing like a knife, and they all turned to its source -- William took the hunting horn from his mouth and smiled then.

The hunt was over.

~~~~~

It was nearing mid-afternoon by the time the Hamlet came into view, the sun canting gently towards the horizon, and Reynauld breathed a sigh of relief. The four of them had the boar tied and hoisted as they trekked down the Old Road, led by Laika and followed by Quiet -- which honestly surprised Reynauld. He hadn’t expected them to so willingly accompany their party back to the Hamlet, and didn’t miss the way they kept glancing to the treeline, hand at their weapon. 

With a chill, Reynauld realized they weren’t too far from where the Shambler had attacked him, Dismas, and the Heir so long ago, and stifled the urge to hurry them on.

They made it back to town without incident, thankfully, as they were all thoroughly exhausted from the hunt. The Heir was making final arrangements for the feast and sent the boar to be cleaned and cooked, spit roasted over a flame for the remainder of the day. He then gave them leave so he could speak with Quiet, presumably to find a way to utilize their litany of skills for the roster.

Bigby excused himself after, appearing more out of place than he had looked while so deep in the weald, and muttered something about going to the guild. As they passed the abbey, Boudica also bade them farewell, claiming she had someone to boast of her bloody victory to.

“Aye, I should be heading to the sanitarium before the feast begins,” William glanced to his bandaged arm with a grimace. “Looks like I’ll be their first patient, funny that.”

“You should take it easy tonight. It was a grievous wound, after all.”

William laughed at his caution, a hearty sound, and Laika perked up at his heels. “It’ll take more than that to get the best of me, won’t it, girl?” The Houndmaster leaned down to pat her neck, and Reynauld couldn’t help but be grateful to them both -- he had been frustratingly restless to leave, then equally anxious to return, but the distraction had overall been much needed. His thoughts had been strangely clouded since Dismas had confided in him about the cove. As if on cue, William glanced up, then nodded to something behind Reynauld. 

Dismas stood at the tavern’s entrance, too far for Reynauld to call out to, but close enough that he could see the man was at least alive and well enough. 

“Seems something is keeping him here after all,” William spoke quietly.

Reynauld didn’t have the energy, nor the patience, nor even the _words_ handy to deny whatever the lawman was suggesting. “ _Perhaps_ ,” was all he could think to say in response, mostly just relieved to see that Dismas hadn’t flung himself to the ocean in Reynauld’s short absence. He might examine William’s light chuckle later, but probably not -- he felt no dire need to question whatever thread of thought he and Dismas were pulling on, unwinding them both.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” William motioned to leave, then walked towards the sanitarium with Laika padding tiredly next to him. 

When Reynauld approached the tavern, approached Dismas _,_ those thin brows were furrowed in his typical impatience. Reynauld watched the way his dark eyes searched down the length of Reynauld’s exhausted body, then flicked back up to his bascinet as if satisfied. 

“I see you didn’t get mauled to death without me there.”

The corners of his mouth were quirked up in a smirk despite how equally tired he looked, and Reynauld welcomed the barb. “There were some close calls.” His voice echoed in his bascinet and as they entered the familiar ambiance of the tavern, he undid his helmet and pulled it off, enjoying the way the sweat cooled on his skin and in his damp hair. When he looked back up, he saw Dismas watching him, brows still knitted but the smile waning to something else entirely. “I see you didn’t run off while I was gone.”

It was playful, but the serious undertones were apparently too obvious because Dismas just huffed, turned away, and said, “Guess I’m an idiot, then.”

“No surprises there.” 

They were at the bottom of the stairs, which felt more like home than Reynauld ever imagined they could, and the Highwayman snorted then very pointedly took them up two at a time. “Better than a damn _martyr_ , if you ask me.”

“Guess I’m an idiot, too,” Reynauld chuckled and followed him up, but was forced to stop when he nearly ran into Dismas who was turned and staring down at him, brow raised. “What?”

“Nothin’. Just never thought I'd see the day,” that comfortable smirk was back now, easy and careless and tempting. Reynauld felt foolish for craving their back and forth banter, had been irritated by it to no end when they first met, but it now felt familiar and welcomed; as ridiculous and natural as feeling like the stairs were home, somehow. “The day that our high and mighty Crusader walks among us mortal idiots.”

It would have felt like a slap from anyone else and Reynauld even stiffened on instinct, too used to scornfully being called ‘ _high and mighty_ ’ throughout his life that he was, but the slight smile that he caught softening Dismas’ features made him relax. After many nights spent together in the tavern or walking the streets of the Hamlet together, near-drunk or otherwise, Reynauld was well-acquainted with all of Dismas’ buttons and could press at them like a skilled acupuncturist. Likewise, Dismas knew his and was always quick to poke back. It was their familiar song and dance when they had nothing else they dared to say.

They were between their tavern rooms now, caught in yet another moment that faded the rest of the world to blurred edges for Reynauld, so focused that he was on that fragile feeling. He gave a blasé shrug, or so he hoped, and said, “It's not hard to be considered ‘high and mighty’ by comparison, you know.”

Dismas rolled his eyes, then lightly shoved Reynauld’s shoulder -- which, against the Crusader’s armor, only served to push himself back. “Humble and _immovable_ as ever, I see.”

Reynauld laughed, finally feeling himself start to relax after such an exhausting trip filled with sharp, unexpected turns that had taken them all by surprise; the strange, bloodied fetish and blackened footprints, the wild, half-rotted beasts that had swarmed them after, the presence of Bigby and the stranger, Quiet. The hunt itself, coming to an abrupt, turbulent end that nearly left half of their party gored by long tusks, Reynauld included. His shoulders slumped from the abating weight of the expedition, sliding off his back like oil to water, and he heaved a full-body _sigh_. 

He needed a rinse and a few prayers, at the very least.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad that boar or whatever else didn’t kill you.” Dismas smiled at him, softly, and Reynauld caught the way his eyes seemed to linger on Reynauld’s shoulder -- the one that had been flayed apart. The one he vaguely remembered fingertips ghosting over in his haze, strange and foreign. “Considering you barely scraped by your last run in with one.” 

Instinctively, Reynauld reached up to the patchwork of skin hidden beneath his armor, the life-saving reconstruction of his flesh that didn’t quite fit with the rest of him. Every other stretch of his chest was covered in hairs, scars, a mole or freckle in various spots, an expanse of pale skin flecked with blemishes that made him human. All save for this one spot, smooth and raw, newly built by Alhazred’s dark magic as if it were a massive scar in and of itself. 

“At the very least, we can _eat_ this boar. Will you be joining the feast later?” Reynauld asked; it had suddenly occurred to him that Dismas wasn’t down with the rest of the Hamlet finishing the preparations for tonight. Dismas just shrugged and looked away, aloof as ever even without the cowl to hide behind, and gave a noncommittal grunt. 

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

_Oh._ Reynauld wasn’t sure why he had assumed the other man would partake when he had been going to such lengths to avoid all other forms of Dismas-typical revelry and discourse lately. The relentless, irritating pang of disappointment brought on by the Highwayman’s recent distance stabbed through Reynauld’s gut and _twisted_ , making him feel foolish and frustrated with himself. Clearly he was too accustomed to Dismas’ snarky, biting, overall _distracting_ presence if he were this fargone of a fool. 

He tried not to let the foreign wave of disappointment flood his words as he nodded and said, “ _Okay_ ,” but clearly wasn’t as successful in drowning his chagrin as he hoped.

Dismas looked back at him, at his tone, thin brow quirked in interest. He stood silent in the hallway for a long moment, as if turning Reynauld’s reluctant acceptance over and over in his mind like a pebble worn at sea. Eventually, he huffed and shrugged again, though far less nonchalant than just a second ago. “Hmm, maybe I’ll stop by after all. It’s not like there’s anything else to eat around here, anyway.”

Reynauld gave him a smile in return, exhausted but genuine nonetheless, and Dismas turned away with red ears, hand on his door.

“I’ll see you tonight, then.”

~~~~~

The eve of his wedding had been a night of mirth and merriment, of laughter and love, dinner and dancing. Whispered words, pretty promises, ardent appreciation for the litany of guests who had attended to bless the bride and groom with well wishes, a new chapter and a bright future. Being a lower class farmer long after his father had died but far before he had taken his knightly vows, Reynauld barely had enough coin to buy their first sow, much less a band of minstrels to perform at their meager wedding. 

He remembered feeling shamed by his paltry offering to Hannah's family, but she had more than compensated with her dowry which allowed for a small gathering of her friends to celebrate their matrimony. 

Amidst the home cooked food and cheap liquor and loud music, Hannah’s laughter as she taught him to dance, her friends playing loaned instruments, the hurts of his past melted from his sense of self and left him… happy. A new man, fresh from sin and hate, gone from desire and violence, his heart so full to bursting that he couldn’t ever have imagined it lacking in the first place. 

He had been naive to think that he would forever be free from the sin of wanting, lost that he was in the steps Hannah had shown him so long ago.

Heedless of his shame, Reynauld smiled widely as he mimicked those steps now, lost in the rhythm of the music and flow of the dance, a familiar warmth curling inside him from the Hamlet’s festivities. It had been years since he danced and was rusty in his steps, but felt alive nonetheless as he listed through the patterns with a surprising well of grace that he rarely had the need to tap into anymore -- both in and out of his armor. 

Audrey, of all people, was in his arms, grinning and howling her hyena laugh as Reynauld twirled her around in those long-lost steps, one-two-three- _spin_ , like a muscle memory coming back to life after a long rest.

“ _Lordy me_ ,” the Grave Robber smirked as they waltzed, blonde hair twirling in time with their movement. “You almost dance like a gentleman!” 

Reynauld was likewise surprised by her steady elegance, matching him step for step through their dance and far more practiced than he would have ever expected the vixen to be. She always held herself above others as if she came from the opulence of higher class, but he never imagined such a lowly spinster would actually have a regal background of lace and finery; after all, she certainly didn’t have the _manners_ of a highborn Lady, he mused. 

He spun her again and she answered his guiding hands, quick on her toes. “I might have had some lessons in the past,” Reynauld spoke freely, fondly almost, feeling the lively mood relaxing his normal distaste for the woman. 

“Color me surprised, knight.”

After a few more long, winding minutes and blunted back-and-forth barbs, the song ended with a crescendo and Audrey pulled away at that, taking off her hat to give Reynauld an overly-deep, overly-playful sweeping bow that might have annoyed him in its mockery under other circumstances. Instead, he nodded back politely, watching her prance back to the table where Paracelsus was seated, hunched over the bloodied fetish that William had given her to study at the start of the feast.

None of them had assumed the Plague Doctor would begin her study _here_ , at the table, but clearly they should have known better. 

As Reynauld watched the two women talk, a certain dark, slouched figure caught his eye from afar -- Dismas was hovering over Quiet at a distant table, his back to Reynauld, shoulders stiff and _looming_ for all intents and purposes over the stranger. Quiet had a hand readied at their hip, as per usual, and Dismas likewise had his coat opened to expose his knife at his belt. 

They made no move towards each other, but even Reynauld could feel the tension radiating off of the two statue-like figures, poised for violence, and started towards them until --

“Reynauld.”

He turned more sharply than he intended, startling both himself and the Heir who stood with his hand outstretched and eyebrows raised. Reynauld recovered his composure quickly and nodded in respect. “Yes, my Lord?”

“I fancy myself a dance partner. Indulge me?” He had a thin smile on his face matched with a surprisingly commanding set of eyes, clearly meant to discourage any thought of denying him, so Reyauld obliged the young man. He had danced with men in the past, albeit rarely, though none had ever been his charge before. Absently, he thought back to when they first met in that hovel of a shanty town tavern, the squeamish, nervous lad who had been sat in a corner, waiting for someone to help him down the Old Road.

As luck would have it, a brooding thief had also made his way to the same bar, dark eyes and darker expression sizing Reynauld up for all he was worth.

A habit neither of them seemed to break.

“You’ve managed a great deal in a short amount of time,” Reynauld noted as they assumed their respective stances, the Heir humbly giving him the lead as the music began and they moved together. They swept through the same regal motions as he had with Audrey, but to a quicker tempo, never stopping to twirl the Heir but instead twirling them both through the steps, one after another. 

He clearly had some training of his own, as he managed to keep pace with ease, speaking without missing a step. “A bit of revelry has been a long time coming since my Uncle passed, you see.”

The Heir had managed to put together a massive feast before sundown -- the spit-roasted boar lay in a bed of root vegetables and herbs, spread out among a banquet of mixed cheeses, soft breads, seared greens and peppers and lentils. There was even some fruit laid out, apples that were hardly mealy and citrus that wasn’t rotted; as grand a feast as any.

Wine, whiskey, and mead were stacked in barrels by the tavern and in the center of the square, which was swept nearly clean and emptied to make room for the ragged musicians and the long tables for the Hamlet’s denizens to dine and chatter at. 

As he danced, Reynauld vaguely wondered how the Heir had managed to afford all this if his uncle’s coffers had truly been emptied before his death.

He didn’t bring himself to ask, grinning as the young Heir was over his deeds.

“How did the new fellow fare? With the hound.” The rest of the Hamlet’s people gave them a wide berth as they swung around, grace for grace, step for step, as if they had done this a dozen times already. For another long pause, Reynauld was lost to the sway of their dance, the happy memories flooding a smile to his face as he led them through the motions Hannah had taught him in overabundance long ago.

“William?” Reynauld glanced to the side without disrupting their rhythm, noting how the lawman was sat at a table with a woman, both of them grinning and laughing. “He proved himself capable. Once his arm heals, he and his wolfhound should be ready for anything.”

“Hmm, good,” the Heir answered, his lusterless locks still swaying with their dance. “I haven’t forgotten your warnings about the cove, and would like to send out an expedition.”

Reynauld perked up at that, nearly fumbling his lead -- if the Heir was sending out an expedition to investigate the cove, then Reynauld wanted to head the charge and see to the end of whatever beast tormented both Dismas’ mind and the Hamlet alike. He said as much but the Heir shook his head, as if he’d expected Reynauld to volunteer himself. “That’s quite alright, Reynauld. You see, I want to test the other newcomer, Barristan. You said he was an experienced leader, correct?”

He gave a begrudging nod of his head, happy to support the grizzled Man-at-Arms, but reluctant to stay behind. “Correct, sir.”

“Then it’s settled!” The Heir smiled and gave a flourish as the song came to an end, parting them. “I’ll make the arrangements for next week so we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.” It was what Reynauld wanted to hear, preferably done as quickly as possible, but he settled into a slight bow and nodded his respects. 

At that, the Heir excused himself, claiming he wanted to go check out the sanitarium before the moon peaked, whatever that meant, and left Reynauld alone to glance back at Dismas.

Now, the Highwayman was seated with Audrey and Paracelsus, rolling his eyes at something and eliciting a laugh from the blonde woman. He watched the way they both focused on him as he approached, sitting straighter with a frown and a smile respectively, though Paracelsus still kept her attention to the fetish splayed on the table before her. She held a wicked looking knife to it, parting various fibers and writing in her small, weathered notebook that she always had on her.

“Dear Knight!” Audrey spoke with a sly grin, charming if not for the impish look it gave her eyes. “Why, I was just telling Dismas here what a right gifted dancer you are.”

“And I’m surely flattered by your sweet praise, minx,” Reynauld spoke flatly, his tone more honest than his words; she just laughed in response, cheeks flushed pink with drink and revelry, clearly not minding his sarcasm one bit. Whether from drink or dance, their dynamic seemed to shift the slightest bit, a rather unnoticeable, but altogether indisputable _warmth_ between them. Reynauld ignored it in favor of turning to Dismas, who was as inconspicuous as Reynauld had ever seen.

“I was wondering if you’d honor me with a dance, Dismas.”

He watched the other man stiffen and glance at him, shoulders raising as if on instinct to hide him behind his nonexistent cowl, mouth in a frown. “I don’t dance.”

Before Reynauld could answer, Paracelsus spoke for him, still distracted. “You _did._ ”

Reynauld honestly wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but Dismas seemed to as he shot her an embarrassed glare, ears red and mouth in a scowl. Clearly the woman knew something Reynauld didn’t and had struck a nerve, as if exposing some dirty secret of the Highwayman’s. “I don’t dance _sober,_ ” Dismas corrected gruffly.

“It’s not that hard with Sir Reynauld,” Audrey goaded, a gorgeous smile still splitting her thin, pale face in twain.

Dismas looked away, clearly irritated, and Reynauld was quick to backtrack; the last thing he wanted was to make the other man uncomfortable, and really, most men Reynauld knew would have laughed in his face or otherwise punished him for offering a dance at all. But those sorts were holy sons of the Light or otherwise pious men, and Reynauld had assumed -- incorrectly, apparently -- that Dismas wouldn’t have been as… _perturbed_ as they would have been.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean -- ” Reynauld started, but was promptly interrupted.

“Look, I don’t know any of your noble dances, _okay?_ ” Dismas was quick to inject, as if that settled the matter. As if Reynauld gave a single damn for what Dismas knew or didn’t.

A lapse of silence passed before Reynauld tentatively offered, “I could teach you.”

He wanted to add, ‘ _only if you want_ ’ or ‘ _don’t worry, I’ve taught many others_ ’ -- anything to make the Highwayman feel as if he weren’t put on the spot, as if Reynauld weren’t offering him his arm in… in their silent waltz, back and force. Push and pull, tug and _give_ on that strangely intimate thread between them that slowly unraveled to something simpler, yet harder to look at, something they were both aware of but ignored entirely. 

Save for now.

Whatever this tension was, built like a fortress to blockade something sweeter, something _vulnerable_ , something either of them refused to be, Reynauld acknowledged and respected it, and tried to say as much.

“Okay, look, forget I said anything -- ”

“If you tell anyone we did this, I -- ”

They stopped, simultaneously, as if surprised by the other’s interjection, then exasperation forged between them like a tangible thing that Paracelsus and Audrey could clearly feel as well as they looked from the two men. Paracelsus tutted in her typical, peevish way and Audrey laughed again, at the very least breaking the tension in the air.

“I think it would be a _lovely_ idea, gents.”

“ _Fine,_ ” Dismas spoke, the red flush melting from the tips of his ears to his face in irritation, dark brown eyes anywhere but Reynauld as he slid to standing and walked out to the center of the austere dance floor.

Reynauld followed instinctively, hot on Dismas’ heels and voice hard as if to dissuade the other man, suddenly apprehensive of his own perimeters. “You don’t have to, Dismas.”

“No. Teach me to dance,” the Highwayman said harshly, adamantly. His eyes alone spoke volumes.

The band had stalled to a quiet number, as if giving the Hamlet a reprieve from their energetic notes, a soothing noise in comparison and the exact wrong piece Reynauld could have asked for in this moment. It was a samba of sounds, a soothing melody that kept Reynauld from swinging his partner the way he might have with the Heir, that kept him from stepping in time and twirling the way he had with Audrey. Instead, the violin and the harp played a melancholy tune that kept Reynauld slow, soft, _gentle_ as he took Dismas’ hands in his own, both of them hesitant. He felt a sweaty warmth wrapped in his palm, a nervous energy pulling them nearly chest to chest, and tried not to lose himself in fervor of the moment.

“If you’re sure, then -- ” Reynauld righted himself, once again taking the lead for the third time tonight, but in a far different depth than he had with either Audrey or the Heir. “Palm to palm. Then place your right hand just below my left shoulder.”

He guided him, Dismas surprisingly pliable beneath his guidance, their hands coming together at the palms and leading Dismas’ other hand until it rested against his shoulder -- his _patched_ shoulder. The one shorn from the Swine King, the one that had been knitted back together, the one that was now untouchable by the very Light itself. The one Dismas had caressed once before, his body told him, his mind alive with something wanting. 

Those were far different circumstances than the one they found themselves in now.

“Now what?” Dismas asked, voice soft between them.

Reynauld cleared his throat, forced himself to focus. “ _Now_ , we dance. Step one, your right foot goes backwards, okay? Then step two, close your left foot to your right foot.” He watched in overt amusement as Dismas listened to him, although hesitant at first, the Highwayman followed Reynauld’s instruction to a tee, his sodden-soil eyes staring down at his steps. It took a few tries, but eventually Dismas fell into the motion of the simple box-step, moving in time with Reynauld’s lead -- who tried not to appear as pleased as he felt. “Perfect, Dismas. Then three, step back with your right, and again. Now forward with your left, just like this. And again -- one, two, three, got it? You’re doing great.”

They moved together, far more naturally than Reynauld ever hoped to assume -- until eventually, after at least two songs of this, Reynauld silenced his counting aloud, trading it for simple humming that in time fell off to Dismas’ own rhythm. 

Once he felt confident enough in their dynamic, Reynauld spoke again.

“Now, eyes on me, Dismas.”

“ _What_?” 

The rogue seemed pissed, his words incredulous as he looked up and fell out of step for a brief moment, his feet working hard to overcompensate for his thrown attention until they finally fell back into step together. Reynauld spoke gently, remembering how Hannah had taken _days_ to wretch Reynauld’s focus from his feet as he danced. Even still, Dismas seemed far more coordinated than the Crusader had been as he flailed through the tempos back then, and Reynauld was honestly confident in Dismas. 

“Instead of staring at your feet, I want you to look at _me_ ,” Reynauld spoke softly, knowing Dismas could hear him in their meager space. Their palms were still flattened together in the typical style of the waltz, Reynauld’s other hand pressed lightly to Dismas’ thin waist -- and if it were lower than it had been on Audrey’s back or the Heir’s shoulder blade, where he normally kept his hands out of respect, then Reynauld would deny that silly claim entirely.

“You’re serious?” Dismas asked, hesitant but keeping with the rhythm.

“I am.”

Their eyes locked at that, and for a moment, Reynauld _himself_ nearly faltered, and he scolded his own foolishness. He had danced with plenty of people, his wife and her friends included, and this should be nothing more than two companions, hand in hand, chest to chest, going through the simple motions that Reynauld had instructed.

“Never would've imagined that meathead knight I met way back in his clunky armor could move like _this_ ,” Dismas chuckled, being led in a simple box-step motion that was in no way indicative of what Reynauld could achieve -- but the Crusader smiled and accepted it.

“I'm not _in_ my armor,” he answered in a near-whisper.

Dismas took a harsh breath, eyes never leaving his as if on command, and said, “I noticed.”

The song ended, now a trivial thing in comparison to Reynauld’s thrumming heart still urging them on past the lull of the transition, _step-_ two-three, _step-_ two-three. They were dancing to their own tempo now, eyes still locked, bodies still entwined, and Reynald wouldn’t stop them for the world, if he had a say. When the music did resume, and when Reynauld had to adjust their speed to match the beat, Reyanuld cleared his throat. “I’m glad you came down to join us.”

The Highwayman shrugged, all nonchalance as usual, and simply said, “Nothing better to do.”

Reynauld didn’t answer, unsure of what to say, unsure of everything but their steps, the force of his wrists, the confidence of his feet leading them both on when Reynauld might have otherwise been lost. Dismas followed, surprisingly compliant when he might have instead rolled his eyes and puffed his chest.

“You’re pretty good at this…” Dismas spoke, paused, smirked, and Reynauld might not have answered if not for his following gibe. “For a _priest,_ anyway.”

Without missing a beat, Reynauld smiled back and said, “And you for a _thief._ ”

They smiled at each other, almost comfortable as Reynauld led them through the steps of the box-step, one after another, a mindless pattern that allowed them to talk and laugh quietly amongst themselves until Dismas seemed to notice --

“Everyone’s watching us.”

For just a moment, Reynauld dared glanced around them, noting the eyes on them from adventurer and citizen alike, and shrugged nonchalantly. “Pay them no mind. It’s just us here.”

Few things could Reynauld say with such absolute confidence, but this was one of them; he and Dismas owned the center square now, shifting to and fro throughout the plaza, dominating the emptied space as the rest of the town watched on. He felt… at peace, something he had rarely felt throughout the span of his entire lifetime, but especially not after having left his family alone at their farmstead. 

He couldn’t be sure how many songs the band had started and ended, but regardless, Reynauld couldn’t bring himself to care. Dismas had quick reflexes and an acute agility that seemed innate to him, like breathing, so he had caught on quick enough to their dance, and the simplistic waltz seemed almost tame in comparison until --

“ _Fucking Light_ , now everyone else is doing it,” Dismas griped, eyes flitting their surroundings with a furrowed brow, tone almost accusatory. “I thought you said this was basic.”

Reynauld chuckled, noting the way Dismas fixated on the sound. “Maybe we just look good doing it.”

Dismas snorted at that, ears red again, eyes narrowed and anywhere other than Reynauld’s blue ones, still following the Crusader’s lead but now surprisingly surrounded by others who had mirrored their example. The box step _was_ a basic moveset, meant for children and beginners, but now the whole Hamlet who dared to join them in the spotlight mimicked their easy back and forth flow. 

“Hmph, you’re full of yourself,” came Dismas’ biting response. 

“Perhaps,” Reynauld grinned, and they fell to a comfortable silence then, lost in the rhythm that enveloped them like a shroud, giving them a strange privacy despite the mosaic of onlookers just outside their field of vision. They were cut from all that, a piece of the picture ripped from the whole to form their own painting, with just the two of them.

It was private and… _intimate_ , almost. Different than when he had danced with Audrey or the Heir, different than when he danced with the villagers at his wedding, so long ago.

“You okay?” Dismas muttered softly, quiet in the noise of the town square, but distinct in the solitude of their own bubble, detached that it was from the rest of the Hamlet. Reynauld wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure why his pulse was so heavy in his veins, loud in his ears, wasn’t sure why his smile came so easily, and wasn’t sure why it was this man in his arms that did it to him. He felt they were overstepping the bounds of their strange friendship, surely, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate it, and couldn’t bring himself to stop.

“Yeah,” he finally responded when he realized that Dismas was still awaiting an answer. “Are you?”

“I’m feeling a little dizzy,” Dismas spoke with a halting voice, and Reynauld realized that he had been moving them in sweeping circles throughout the square, winding them around the other dancers in the center without even noticing. He had never expected Dismas to take his lead so naturally without at least complaining about it first.

“Do you want to stop?”

He was shamelessly tense for Dismas’ answer, a nerve welling up within him and waiting to be struck like the chord of the lute that played in the background, waiting for him to split their palms, separate the air between them hot and alive with the tempo. 

“...No.”

Reynauld chuckled at that and slowed them down to the simple motion of the box step again, keeping their spinning to a minimum. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

Because of their proximity, with his arm around Dismas and with the other man yielding to his sway, Reynauld immediately felt the way Dismas tensed at the question, eyes suddenly hard and back stiff, causing the Highwayman to miss a step. Reynauld was quick to compensate for it, sliding them in a way that kept their momentum in the waltz, and waited for the other man to relax. He didn’t, but his voice held none of the rigidity his body did when he finally said, “Nope. Don’t need sleep.”

A sigh, then, to summon his patience -- both with Dismas and with himself. He still didn’t understand his place between them, after all, and whether or not that place entailed scolding better self-preservation practices into the other man. Against his better judgement, he decided not to. 

“You will eventually,” he simply said, and added in a matter-of-fact way, “And when you do, just know that there are people here who would hear if you left.”

_Me, for instance,_ he wanted to say, but didn’t; he didn’t want to risk Dismas’ ire while he was within stabbing distance, but the implications between them were obvious enough. Reynauld had always been a light sleeper, especially since his time in the holy wars, and knew he would wake up again should Dismas be taken by the being that haunted him in the middle of the night. It seemed to appease the smaller man, though, who looked away to cover the slight lift of his smile. 

“Perhaps tonight, then,” Dismas shrugged. “ _Maybe_.”

It was noncommittal, but enough to appease Reynauld, who gave him a happy spin of their feet, a quick twist that nearly threw off the Highwayman’s rhythm entirely. Dismas laughed at the show of exultation, a sharp huff of noise that grew Reynauld’s smile further and gave him a heady wave of confidence to ask, “Can I dip you?”

Dismas startled slightly at the question, brows furrowed as if trying to figure out what that meant. “What?”

“It’s not uncommon to dip your partner when ballroom dancing,” answered Reynauld, his voice laced with amusement, and remembered the way Hannah had explained it to him, so long ago: it was a weight-sharing exercise, almost as if an expression of trust not to drop them. The sudden memory and the pang of guilt it brought stalled Reynauld’s smile, faltering, and he added, “But we don’t have to if -- ”

“Sure,” Dismas interrupted, and Reynauld’s smile crept back timidly. “Dip me.”

“Okay,” he breathed with a laugh, the wave of guilt still there, but abating some. “Just follow my lead, and try not to fight it.” He set them up, following the steps of the waltz so that his momentum shifted, his hand sliding lower down Dismas’ back, bringing him closer, then --

“ _Fuck_!” As Reynauld expected, Dismas tensed as the movement bent him backwards, shifting his center and leaning him into a low dip that had him clinging to the Crusader as if he might fall. Reynauld wouldn’t let him, though, despite the way his thin, taut body made the dip harder to control, he held Dismas there, the moment paused and stretched into something infinite.

The world halted, allowing Reynauld to listen to their breathing, to feel the bite of Dismas’ blunt nails in his hand, his other hand clawed into Reynauld’s tunic like a feral cat trying to keep from plunging backwards, but Reynauld’s own hands were strong and sure. He kept them suspended there, letting Dismas unwind and relax into the dip, muscle by muscle, heartbeat by fluttering heartbeat. 

Reynauld’s heart clenched, ached, when slowly, agonizing in its hesitance, the hand in his shirt loosened its rigid grip and moved from his chest. It inched up, as if Dismas were afraid of being dropped should he move too quickly, until bare fingertips touched Reynauld’s neck, bursting a dizzying wave of warmth within his veins. 

His breath caught at the contact, as did Dismas’, and Reynauld held as still as he could, waiting to see what those fingertips did next.

Eternity distilled in a single brush of skin as Dismas slid his hand further up the back of Reynauld’s neck, those nails scraping into his hair, causing him to shiver from head to toe. What was Dismas doing? What was _he_ doing? Reynauld felt clouded, reduced to goosebumps and a shaky exhale, as that hand pulled gently, urging him lower, and he followed it down, thoughtless, off balance. 

With a jolt, Reynauld stumbled, nearly completely tipping them over and quickly righting them both upwards with a jerk lest they wind up sprawled on the stones. Whatever fragile moment was gone with the wrenching correction, Reynauld mentally kicking himself.

“Forgive me for -- ”

“Sorry about -- ”

They stopped, now silent, allowing the other to finish, and Reynauld wasn’t sure what to do next -- until he heard clapping and whooping from his side, then turned to see Audrey, Jingles, Boudica, Junia, even Paracelsus seated and watching them. They parted quickly, as if their warm touches suddenly burned their bare skin, and Reynauld saw the flush creep from Dismas’ ears to his face to his neck. 

“Thank you for the dance, Dismas,” Reynauld said with a smile, trying to salvage the strange moment that still filled his mind like a fog. He couldn’t process it, not yet, not ever perhaps, but it was sweet like incense and he savored it while he could. “But we should grab some food before Boudica eats all the meat.”

…

The rest of the night passed smoothly enough without any similar missteps on either of their parts, hands kept to themselves and words curt. The pork itself was delicious and was easily one of the best meals Reynauld had eaten in at least a decade, though he was unsettled by the Heir’s sudden disappearance to the sanitarium before the night was over. The drinks flowed, though Reynauld was surprised to see Dismas decline any of the liquor -- which was indicative of either his mental or physical state.

Eventually, Quiet wandered over and grabbed a bit of food, keeping to themselves despite the invitation to sit amongst most of the roster, then went instead to join Bigby and ate in silence, sharp eyes on Dismas the entire time. 

“Do you two know each other?” Paracelsus asked without looking up from the straw idol.

Ever vigilant, even while distracted, the small woman surprised Reynauld with her perceptive bluntness; Reynauld had been equally curious about the nature of Quiet’s heated stare at the Highwayman, but wasn’t about to ruin Dismas’ fragile temper with questions. He watched the way Dismas paused, mid-bite, eyes flickering to the pelted stranger across the town square, and simply shrugged.

He spoke past a mouthful of potatoes, voice overtly unconcerned. “Thought they looked familiar, s’all.”

They left it at that, none of them willing to press the topic when Dismas had already been agitated with them for the past couple weeks, and instead defaulted to their happy chatter with Audrey leading the conversation in cheery laughter and quips.

Eventually, the night shifted, coffee and desserts in the form of cooked fruits and creamy sauces being served, alcohol being distributed by the mugs until the barrels were empty. The mood was raucous, joyous, with Alhazred fetching a strange smoking device filled with opium, Jingles playing them dirty folk songs that Audrey somehow knew all of the lyrics to, with Junia hiding her blushing laughter from behind her hands and Boudica next to her howling at the moon until eventually the Caretaker and Laika joined in. Barristan was drunkenly recounting his war exploits to Quiet and Bigby, who seemed to be patiently listening, equally drunk and flushed. Even Paracelsus had sheathed her knife and hidden the fetish to focus on Audrey’s sung innuendos.

William came to Reynauld’s side of the table, straw-colored moustache outlining his bushy grin, hurt arm still cradled at his side. “Clearly we should go on boar hunts more often.”

Reynauld laughed, untouched by alcohol or opium but high on the heady mood of the night as those around him -- those he cared about, those he fought to protect, those he celebrated with when things went _right_ for once -- enjoyed themselves. It was a happy ambiance, and impossible not to get caught up in. 

“Perhaps next month, if the Heir allows it.”

He agreed, and after a few more songs, the band slowed to a finale. The moon was high in the sky, bright and pale and full, ghostly almost, and the lull of the music turned somber as the festival neared its end. 

When a certain acoustic note struck, William cleared his throat and sat up straighter, and with the flow of the doleful melody, hummed the lyrics to an unfamiliar song.

“A lone man by the seashore, at the end of day,” William rang in a baritone sound. The rest of the Hamlet slowly settled, voices falling and laughter abating, giving the lawman the floor to continue. His eyes were closed, as if drifting to a different life, words soft and voice softer. “Gazes the horizon with seawinds in his face. Tempest tossed isles, and seasons all the same. Anchorage unpainted and a home without a name.”

To his side, lute now in hand and strumming along in time with the beat, Jingles piped in as well, then Audrey, and surprisingly Quiet from afar, their higher pitched voices mingling with William’s lower one pleasantly. “Sea without a shore for the banished one unheard, he lightens the beacon’s Light at the end of the world.”

There was a lull then, a long stretch of an instrumental break from the band, and in the respite, William leaned to him and whispered, “‘Tis an old sailor’s shanty, popular among the common folk. It’s normally for the passage of a man’s life to the next, you see.”

Reynauld nodded respectfully, but had never heard this particular melody before; the faith of the Light had a rather stringent ritual for those who had passed, including a burial, a rite of prayers, and a religious send off by means of blessings and verses. It was an emotional time, burying the bodies of the rested as their souls joined the Eternal Flame, which left Reynauld unfamiliar with this particular song and he tried not to immediately condemn it from his faith.

“Showing the way, lighting hope in their hearts,” the voices continued, now joined by a great many others. Even Barristan, with his rich tone, added his voice to the symphony of others, now surrounding Reynauld in a somber ensemble, a choir of drunken tavern minstrels and their nightly prayer. “The ones on their travels homeward from afar.”

Another long pause of violins, of a steady beat on booming drums, the drone of alto humming, until eventually the chorus started up again and behind him, a familiar voice finally joined in, quieter than the rest but just as resolute. 

“This is for long-forgotten,” Dismas sang, low and melancholy, eyes closed and adding his gravelly voice to the others. “Light at the end of the world.”

When he opened his eyes, they found Reynauld’s, grim and sober, a harsh contrast to the last time Reynauld had looked upon them while they danced, dipped, drifted into unknown territories. The music continued, pumping hot and alive in Reynauld’s mind, remembering Dismas frantically and desperately running to the Necromancer, Dismas holding him as he faded in the slums of the Swine King, Dismas bursting through the doors of the abbey, wild and grinning when he saw Reynauld. 

Dismas flushing pink, Dismas smirking as he danced, Dismas pulling him closer. 

Dismas, who sang with the rest of the Hamlet a song foreign to Reynauld, strange but stunning all the same. Reynauld watched the other man’s mouth form the words, filling the air with a sadness that didn’t belong to either of them, a sadness that hollowed Reynauld’s bones and swelled him with anguish of what was to come. 

“Horizon crying, the tears he left behind so long ago.”

The song eventually faded, the denizens and adventurers eventually made their way back to their respective homes or barracks, the moon eventually crested and peaked, but still Reynauld remembered those dark eyes, those dark words and the dark tone that haunted him.

When he walked with Dismas back to the tavern, up the stairs and to their doors, he couldn’t forget the weariness that he felt as thunder rumbled in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay again. I'm a few chapters ahead now, just tweaking bits and pieces. I was _so_ embarrassed to post this dance scene, sheesh. 
> 
> Any thoughts or comments are welcome! Next chapter, we can finally get back to the Siren, I just had to build up some other bits first. Thanks a lot for your patience.


	20. Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Siren saga continues

  1. **Panic**



The  next  time it happened, Reynauld blessedly wasn’t as caught off guard. He had always been a light sleeper and the sound of thunder cracking the night sky in half startled him awake, which was soon followed by the sound of the door being thrown open in the room next to his. 

_ Dismas.  _

It was as if the very storm summoned him, lightning flashing and rain hammering the roof above him. Reynauld said a quick prayer as he threw on his boots and an outer layer to help protect himself from the rain -- he had long since recovered from the ague, thank the Eternal Flame, but he didn’t wish to tempt fate by running out in the storm in only his sleeping tunic and leggings again. 

He was irritated as he took to the steps -- not at Dismas, or at least not entirely. He was irritated with himself. Reynauld had been the one to encourage him to sleep that night; the sharp retorts, the dark circles, the dull lethargy, Dismas was scared to relax and it showed.

So of course it stormed on the night Reynauld urged him to sleep. He shouldn’t have gotten involved, but the man was clearly suffering and was taking it out on the rest of them.

By the time Reynauld caught sight of the Highwayman, he was already out the door of the tavern and down the slick cobblestone streets of the Hamlet towards -- the cove. His normally cat-like, fluid motions were jerky and rushed now, eyes hollowed and glazed as he all but ran past the bridge. Reynauld wasn't sure if he knew he was being followed by the way he stumbled in his haste, wet stones impeding him until they eventually turned to a muddied dirt road.

"Light watch over him," Reynauld whispered to the heavens above, keeping his distance from the sleepwalking man lest he start another violent altercation. 

Last time, he had panicked and fetched the Plague Doctor, then nearly tackled Dismas after he had ignored his questions, his shouts. He was… unsettled, seeing the mindless state Dismas had been in, eyes blank, teeth bared, not an ounce of recognition on his face as Reynauld called to him, held him in the mud and dirt until the frenzied sleepwalking had passed. When the light returned to his burnished brown eyes, the angry resistance settled into sleepy confusion, and when the familiarity finally washed over Dismas, Reynauld found he could breathe easy again. 

Dismas had insisted that he was just sleepwalking, that it wasn’t an issue and that it would pass. Anything to keep him and Paracelsus from telling the others. But now Reynauld knew better, and he was irritated with himself for not concerning himself with this sooner.

This time, Reynauld trailed him from a few yards back, watching the other man now soaked from the rain in his thin undershirt, still pressing on at an uneven pace. He knew he could restrain Dismas if it came down to it, but he had no desire to go through that again and hoped upon hope that Dismas would wake up of his own accord, turn around, return to bed. Reynauld knew better now, but still he hoped and called out to him, again and again. His cries went ignored, either lost to the storm or lost to Dismas’ mind.

Eventually, Dismas led Reynauld exactly to where he had expected him to -- the ocean, thrashing violently with the storm. Whatever this creature was that sang to Dismas, it seemed to have more power when the storms swelled.

Reynauld had visited the ocean once with Hannah, as a different man. He remembered how it took her breath away, made her squeal as she kicked in the sand and splashed in the waves. It had seemed harmless then, welcoming and tame, even. Reynauld knew not to underestimate it, though, knew that the still waters and glittering shore were nothing more than a facade. 

Knew it later, when he was older, battle hardened, bloodstained. Later when he had lost nearly half a battalion to surging waters and swirling winds, the screeching hurricane deafening and salt water blinding. He had pulled soldier after soldier from the pits of the storm, but couldn’t save them all from a watery grave. His heavy armor had kept him from swimming after them, his waterlogged gambeson weighing him down and rendering him useless to those being carried away by angry waters, watching on in fear and anguish.

That very fear flashed before him as he watched Dismas stumble in the storm, succumb to the will of the ocean, until eventually the man veered away from the thunderous waves crashing in the sand -- veered towards the cove, now partially covered by the tide.

He'd be lost within if Reynauld didn't stop him. 

A protective anger surged through Reynauld before Dismas could get much further from him, numbing Reynauld to the heavy rain, the harsh chill, the howling wind and the unforgiving waves now rising and breaking between the two men, as if to finally part them. Reynauld ran, legs driving him through the waters that rose to his calves now, the waters pulling and pushing as if with a life of their own. An  _ intent _ . He ignored it, ignored the will of the ocean as he heaved through the vicious tide, holding fast despite the sand rippling and twisting beneath his feet from the relentless pull of the waves.

“Dismas!”

He thought his voice lost again to the winds if not for the falter in the smaller man’s step, the way his pace slowed for a moment, the way his shoulder blades pinched back in recognition, but still he did not wake. He pressed on, and so did Reynauld with a renewed vigor. 

It was like running in a dream, the waves and sand still slipping beneath him, but Reynauld was an unstoppable force, more so than even the storms and the sea. He bellowed past the screeching wind, trenched through the tides now up to his thighs, thoughtless to how they would survive this together. He wouldn’t let this take him, whatever this thing was, nature or Eldritch. 

Dismas was nearly at the entrance to the cove now, nearly half of the gaping cave obscured by the waves; whatever was within would surely drown Dismas before he even got close. That thought alone crested a new wave of adrenaline in Reynauld, bracing against the storm and throwing himself past the gap between them, catching Dismas’ wrist in a wet grip.

“No!” the Highwayman shouted, pulling and wringing in Reynauld’s grasp. It was all Reynauld could do to keep the smaller man from slipping free, eyes wide and angry and unfamiliar. “My queen! She needs me!”

Reynauld grit his teeth, feeling the man’s thin wrist bones shift beneath his strong hand. Dismas seemed ready to break his own wrist in this state than be brought back to land, back to safety, back to Reynauld. He grabbed Dismas’ forearm with his other hand and heaved him close, close enough to clutch him by the waist. The smaller man flailed, thrashed, slammed his fists against Reynauld’s chest as the waters still pulled at them, angry and mirroring Dismas' frenzy. Reynauld was battling the storm, the ocean, Dismas himself, just to bring the other man back to his sanity. 

“She  _ calls _ !” came his hollow voice, fists still fierce and heavy against Reynauld’s body. He grabbed them, as gentle but firm as he could manage, trying to restrain Dismas whose face was still contorted in that strange, mindless rage. He tried to guide him, but Dismas was guideless and would not be goaded, not coaxed nor lured to safety, physically or otherwise. 

_ Fine then _ . He would be dragged, if nothing else, back to land. Back to the Hamlet and back to Reynauld, even if these harsh salty waves meant to condemn them both, Reynauld would tow Dismas back to the higher-ground or die trying. 

Dismas lashed out and turned in Reynauld’s grasp, throwing his meager weight towards the churning tide, shouting "My queen!" Again and again. Reynauld grasped him around the waist, his underclothes lining his slim form, and lifted him out of the water, towards the rocky cliffside, his back pressed to Reynauld's chest as he reached towards the cove. Dismas cursed, kicked up at the waves, at the air, at nothing and cried out as if Reynauld were snatching him from heaven itself, but he was harmless as Reynauld all but hauled the smaller man away from the vast ocean.

Slowly, as if trudging through mud and with a feral cat in his arms, Reynauld crawled towards the cliff face and turned Dismas until he could press the smaller man's back to the wall. Dismas clambored against him, all restless anger, eyes distant and mind lost, but Reynauld held him there, pressed against the rock wall, the only thing able to steady them both.

The waves slammed against Reynauld’s back, hard, one after another and threatening to drag them both out to sea, but Reynauld refused. He clenched his jaw, ground his teeth, held strong through the vicious tide and the shivers that wrecked him. It was horribly reminiscent of the whippings, the lashings, the flagellation that marked him as a boy. He was taken back to the penance halls, the flails, his father’s angry words that demanded retribution. He gave it all to him and more, in exchange for the scars on his back that weaved his body like a family seal on a letter, burned hot into the fleshy mold meant to be ripped open later and bared once more. 

These waters held the same anger, the same force, but none of the sting. He held strong, jaw flexed and mouth grit as Dismas sobbed for his faux-queen, no longer fighting for freedom but helpless and tucked securely beneath Reynauld’s chin. He felt the man's shivering, felt the thin cloth of his underclothes pressed against him, drenched, and Reynauld curled in on him hoping to bring whatever warmth he had left to Dismas' smaller form. 

He felt the merciless cruelty of his father, of all who came after, and the whispers in his ear, "Why do you care what happens to this wretch? Let him be gone to the Light that you may sleep peacefully."

It was terrible and true.  _ Why did Reynauld care? _ But he felt more so than heard a sob break through the other man, pressed to his neck, over the pounding water on his back, in his ears, and all he knew was that he did. He had fought for this man, so quick with his wit and scowls and smiles, quick with his gun and knife and courage. Quick to save Reynauld when he had thought himself lost in so many ways. Quick to light the coals in the Crusader, who had long ago buried them. 

"I have sacrificed much," Reynauld spoke to no one, to the ocean, to whatever force occupied Dismas. "I will not sacrifice  _ him _ !"

They stayed like that, pressed together against the salty stone of the cliff, Dismas shivering and whimpering within his arms, lost again to the darkness in his mind and Reynauld mooring him with all his might. He shouldn't have let him come out this far, shouldn't have tempted fate with him, tempted whatever this ocean creature was. Reynauld spoke the verses, murmured softly into Dismas' wet hair, eyes closed and smelling the cedar ash and tallow he must have used when he bathed mixed with the salt and brine now coating them both.

“ _ The fire stands with you, fear not the night _ ," he prayed again and again, words lost to the storm but seeming to soothe Dismas all the same. 

Dismas slowly stilled in his arms, body going limp against his, and Reynauld held him, tried to force whatever warmth he could into the Highwayman, tried to steady him against the cliff wall as the waves continued to pummel him, slower now. Reynauld would outlast this -- he had outlasted much worse, and his will was hardened against the sea and storm as he stood between Dismas and the vast ocean demanding him, a bulwark for as long as this man needed him. He could feel Dismas' bare arms come up to wrap around him, shaken and uncertain, his head still tucked beneath Reynauld’s chin. The storm would pass, Light give him patience, and Reynauld would outlive it. 

More importantly,  _ Dismas _ would outlive it.

…

In a battle of wills and patience, the Crusader finally won out. The heavy downpour slowed to a soft, misty drizzle and the tide licked at their bare ankles before either of them moved.

Reynauld was beyond sore, felt battered from head to toe as he pulled back just enough to look down at the shorter man curled against his chest. He wasn't sure if Dismas was asleep or still under the ocean's trance or otherwise refusing to open his eyes, so Reynauld reached up to hesitantly run a hand through his wet hair and smoothed the black strands from his forehead. He memorized the way it parted to his fingers, thick and dripping with salt water, stark black against his pale hand. He memorized the way the tips just barely began to curl as they dried in the humid air, memorized the shift from lush locks to sharp stubble down the sides of Dismas’ head, from his temple, to behind his ear, to the back of his neck. 

His heart pounded in his throat and he was gripped by their closeness, inappropriate and intoxicating in the calm after the danger finally passed. Reynauld wasn’t sure when he had gotten so bold in the night, all he knew was that he cared for little else in this moment.

The swollen moon was low on the tide, pulling the shore back with a reluctant retreat as it made its way to the limbo between night and dawn, casting them in a gossamer light that chilled the air. The sand settled beneath their feet, the world righted, the waves left the space around them crisp and fresh and Reynauld was adrift in the fog it summoned. He closed his eyes to block out the pale Light, to savor this intimacy whether it was his for the taking or not,  _ needing  _ something to keep him buoyant in his sheer exhaustion. The Highwayman was still shivering, and all Reynauld could do was hold him.

Dismas finally stirred and looked up, dark gaze bleary, tired eyes curtained with black lashes -- and with the meager space between them, Reynauld could make out the mist that gathered on each lash -- blinking slowly as he adjusted to… 

That flicker of recognition blessedly burned back into his eyes, now wide in confusion. Reynauld watched the range of emotions grace his hard features; confusion, understanding, fear, shame, guilt. Something that sounded like a choked sob broke his lips apart as he clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes back shut, trembled violently. Reynauld just smiled at him patiently, somberly, then pulled him close again, letting Dismas feel whatever he needed to in the unexpected safety of their embrace. 

Eventually, the shaking subsided and Dismas' voice spoke hard, muffled against Reynauld's broad chest but angry all the same. 

"We should tell the others."

~~~~~

“You’re  _ not  _ going out there,” the Heir said firmly. He was a child, nearly half Reynauld’s age and soft and boyish, unhardened to the ways of war and bloodshed. But he spoke with an authority that Dismas clearly rebelled against, dark brows furrowed and nostrils flared wide. These past few months had changed the Heir, had brought him weary confidence that he seemed worlds away from when Reynauld had first sat with him at the tavern, so long ago. It was a surprise to see the Heir take a stance so vehemently -- he had matured greatly in a short timespan. 

Dismas spit and Reynauld winced, but the Heir didn’t back down, didn’t even budge. “You’ve some nerve to think you can order me around, kid.”

“When you agreed to stay, it was under the conscription of the Hamlet.  _ My  _ Hamlet,” his cheeks were flushed from their conflict but his chin was lifted, jaw set, eyes hard. “I can’t  _ risk  _ you, Dismas, not after these spells you've been under."

Reynauld agreed wholeheartedly, having seen Dismas' trance firsthand twice now, but he kept his mouth shut. This wasn't a battle he could participate in, not without drawing the Highwayman's anger or the Heir's condemnation. Dismas continued to fight, though, pacing the room in his restless anxiety, and jabbed a finger at the Heir from a distance. "Listen here,  _ brat _ . You’ve no idea what haunts my dreams, what feasts on my fear and  _ calls  _ to me. During every blasted storm, while your pretty little head sleeps off whatever Para gives you,  _ I _ run off in search of _ \--  _ ” He stopped and looked to Reynauld, as if embarrassed. Ashamed. The Crusader knew that look. 

He didn’t tell Dismas what he had been crying out for last night, thrashing in his arms and huddled beneath his chin, broken and lost to the voice within. The obstinate man seemed to prefer keeping that a secret from Reynauld, the fact that he would have hacked off his wrist and more for his supposed  _ ‘queen’ _ . 

If Dismas didn’t want him to know, then the Crusader could bite his tongue to the truth. For his sake, regardless of how much it burned something strangely hateful inside of the holy man.

The Heir must have missed the moment between them, which was fine with Reynauld, because he crossed his arms and shook his head, blond locks having lost their luster a while ago. “That is  _ precisely why  _ I forbid you from going on this expedition. Who knows what you’d be at the mercy of? We finally have plenty of other able-bodied heroes to go explore the source without putting you at risk. Light above, we don’t even know what you’d be walking into.”

They stayed like that, bickering and not giving an inch, for too long before Reynauld finally cut the distance between him and Dismas to place a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. Dismas flinched from it, shamed, as if they hadn’t spent hours bundled against one another, and those eyes like upturned earth looked to Reynauld with a furious agony drawn by knitted brows. A moment later, Dismas slammed the doors of the Heir’s manor open, Jingles having long ago swapped from being a worthless butler to a semi-competent adventurer, when the fool wasn’t sticking his extremities into things.

Reynauld could feel Dismas’ simmering frustration from the short distance between them as the Highwayman stalked off, so he looked to the sun -- still a few hours before late afternoon, he measured -- and called out, “You know, I could use a sparring partner.”

…

Fighting Dismas was as exciting and unpredictable as anything else the man did, so strange to Reynauld’s stringent, Light-driven discipline, but not nearly as foreign as the teachings would have them be. The way the man arched, spun,  _ danced  _ with every precise and deadly swipe of the training blade, it might have mesmerized Reynauld if not for fear of that blade finding an opening. 

He had watched Dismas spar with others, with Boudica and Jingles and Audrey, fierce and frenzied and always finding a way past their guards and into their weaknesses. 

Dismas seemed to have a knack for that.

“You’re holding back,” the Highwayman shouted with a glare, and slashed. “I’ll have your nose for that!”

Reynauld snorted a laugh through his open-faced helm, which made Dismas’ brown autumn eyes narrow at him. “Were I anyone else, I’ve no doubt you’d have me on my back by now.” Whatever connotation Dismas took that in, he faltered and it gave Reynauld the upper hand to press forward, now on attack with a slash, a step, a sideswipe, another step. Dismas deflected or dodged them all, but just barely, brows still furrowed at the offending man. 

He recovered quickly enough, but remained on the defensive as Reynauld gradually drove him back, feet quick and sword quicker. Dismas was right -- the Crusader  _ was  _ holding back, only just, but enough to be noticeable apparently. Just enough to accommodate the fatigue clearly growing in the other man, the way his hand dragged just slightly through the air, the way the sweat beaded on his brow, the way his shoulders heaved and slumped with each breath. He was defiant as he always was, brought to life by a brazen will that flashed in his eyes; Reynauld grinned at that, slashed at his ribs, was blocked, twisted past his infamous riposte, pushed on. 

They didn’t draw a crowd for once, most likely hung over from the night before, and for that Reynauld was grateful. He didn’t want there to be spectators when he --

He stepped wider this time, past where Dismas obviously expected him to, into the smaller man’s own guard as he was so keen to do to others, close enough that he could hear Dismas’ breath catch in surprise. Apparently too lost to his own frustration, Dismas hadn’t realized where Reynauld had been backing him up to, giving him no quarter as he pressed him up against the wall of the guild. He was defenseless, nowhere for him to bound away and dodge, nowhere for him to get the jump on Reynauld. 

In his shock, Dismas skipped a beat in their dance and Reynauld took the advantage to quickly grasp the man’s knife hand, firmly slamming it to the wall and pinning him by the wrist until the blade fell from it. It was the same wrist Reynauld had caught the night before that the entranced Highwayman would have broken to escape, had he let him; he could see the promise of a bruise forming, and for a moment, Reynauld felt ashamed for letting things get out of hand.

Their battle ended, Reynauld the obvious winner as he held the edge of his training sword to Dismas’ stomach. He expected the younger man to thrash and curse and pull some other foul play trump card from his sleeves, but he just stilled beneath Reynauld’s hold, eyes down and troubled.

“It seems we’re tied again, rogue,” Reynauld spoke lowly between them, wondering just for a moment if he should have let Dismas win, had his own pride allowed it.

Dismas just shook his head, looking so exhausted beneath him that Reynauld nearly felt the fatigue himself. His heart still pumped from the adrenaline, Dismas’ wrist still caught in his hand, back to the wall and out of sight from any who might pass, and Reynauld swallowed. It was a compromising position and was reminiscent of the night before, pressed to the cliffside together at the mercy of the ocean.

Only this time, Reynauld didn’t fear for their lives. This time, there was nothing to distract him from the too-close proximity, the nerves threading his mind and pumping his blood hot.

“Guess it’s a good thing I won’t be sent out there,” Dismas slumped against the wall in his own personal defeat and Reynauld felt something…  _ protective  _ clench in his chest. The same overwhelming instinct that shielded Dismas from the storm just hours ago, stilled together until the first morning light had managed to tame the waves, it surged in him now. Surged him to drop the training sword loudly at their feet, surged him to take off his training helmet, surged his now free hand up to reach up, to --  _ tempted  _ him to cup Dismas’ chin, to chase that despair away as he always tried to for him. 

He thought back to that drunken night, now months ago, to what he had almost wanted, what he had almost  _ done _ . What Dismas had seemed to drunkenly want, too. It tempted Reynauld’s hands now in ways it shouldn’t, brought close enough that he could hear the breath catch between them, smell the heady sweat of their fierce match, watch the way Dismas’ head lifted of his own volition, umber eyes tired and worn and  _ hopeful _ . 

There were no gazes upon them, not tucked away here against the shelter of the guild, and Reynauld found himself wishing they might be hidden from the Light as well. 

Instead, Reynauld placed his empty palm against the wall, encumbering him not unlike he had against the ocean, and bowed his neck so that his sweaty forehead hovered close to Dismas’ gently, barely, a ghost of a touch. They were inches away. It was embarrassingly close and intimate, and he felt the warm breath of the other man on his cheek, and his head swam and his mind fogged. But he remained still, collected his thoughts, turned them to words that with great effort surprisingly didn’t tremble. 

“They’ll find whatever haunts you, Dismas.” The shorter man didn’t look convinced, so firmly, Reynauld added, “And if they don’t,  _ we  _ will.”

At this point, he couldn’t deny the squeeze in his chest when Dismas smiled softly up at him, couldn’t deny that whatever he had once felt for his wife, so long ago, he now felt for another. Something beyond simple camaraderie and compatibility in battle, something that felt… meaningful. Trust. Attraction. The desperate need to see to someone’s safety, to their happiness, to meet their needs and more.

It wasn’t his place, Reynauld knew, to shoulder this man’s great pains the way Hannah had done for him, had taught him to do, knew it wasn’t even  _ allowed  _ to be his place, as much as he might want it to be. And he did, the lump in his throat told him, the burning beneath his skin urged, the small space that was still too far between them contended, turned from the Light that he was in this moment. It could never be more than this, than soft touches and softer words, but Reynauld would steal as many moments as he was able before the guilt or the Eldritch beasts put a stop to it. Whichever came first. 

He wished he could tell Dismas as much.

“ _ Ahem, _ ” came a sharp voice from behind them, cutting the moment in two as they split apart. Or rather, as Reynauld jumped back and as Dismas glared at the intrusion. 

Paracelsus watched them from her beak, arms crossed in her Plague Doctor garb as she tapped her foot impatiently at them. “ _ There  _ you two are. The Heir is sending out the expedition first thing in the morning, and he wants the exact location to this cove you both found. So hurry things up and come with me, Dismas.” Reynauld clumsily put his training helm back on as she spoke, noticing Dismas watching his every move, face unreadable but brows drawn. 

He would have to be more careful when he stole those near-addictive moments from the other man, lest he lose himself from the Light entirely. 

…

Dismas had been summoned back to the Heir for a more personal account of his sleepwalking, along with Alhazred and Paracelsus. That left Reynauld with little to do other than fret over the impending expedition, so he sought out the only other person he felt a small modicum of comfort with.

William was at the blacksmith, he found, outfitting Laika with a new spiked collar to prepare her for their outing to the cove in the morning. His straw-colored mustache lifted when he saw the Crusader and clasped his shoulder in greeting.

“Ah, the man who vouched for me, I hear. Come to give me any last words of wisdom?”

He said it with an affable smirk, having already been talked through the paces by all of the other veterans. Reynauld just shrugged back, saying, “Only to be on your guard. Alhazred thinks whatever lives within the cove is another Eldritch demon. Retreat, if you must, just be careful. We don’t know what this thing’s capable of.”

“Will do,” he nodded. After finishing with his upgrade and adorning his wolfhound with a rather intimidating looking collar -- in stark contrast to her happy, lively demeanor as she followed them out -- the two men walked the streets. Reynauld wanted to show the ex-lawman around, show him what he’d been sworn to protect, if nothing else than to keep the worry gnawing at his mind. They passed people Reynauld was familiar with by now, mostly those homeless or others down on their luck, blessing him for past kindnesses as they walked on.

Eventually, they ran into two young women who Reynauld recognized, each carrying a large crate that they struggled with. The Crusader was quick to step in and offer his assistance, as was expected of a knight of the holy Flame, and the women giggled as he and William carried their burdens back to their shop for them while they cooed over Laika and whispered behind their hands.

“ _ Hah _ , these women will be the death of me,” William bellowed a laugh as they waved goodbye. They looked back over their shoulders at them, still giggling, still blushing and whispering at their departure. “They certainly seemed fond of you, friend.”

Reynauld huffed a hollow laugh and shrugged nonchalantly. “Miss Bethany and Miss Darla are very kind, is all.”

William rolled his eyes knowingly. “I know a smitten woman when I see one. I’m sure you could have your pick of the Hamlet, the way the ladies fawn over a man in plate and armor.” The thought made Reynauld’s skin crawl, grew a scowl on his face that the Houndmaster must have noticed, because he quickly added, “Sorry. I forgot about your sacred oath, though I’m not sure how you holy folk manage it.” As he said so, William nodded politely at a woman walking by who smiled at them both, but whose eyes lingered on Reynauld, now that he thought to pay attention. He wished he hadn’t.

Instead, he just cleared his throat and corrected, “We aren’t required to take a vow of chastity when we’re sworn to the Light. They only necessitate that the women of the sects stay pure of body and soul, but those of us who have been at war have been pardoned.” Which didn’t make a lick of difference to Reynauld, but seemed to shock the other man.

“Well, then I’m sure Miss Bethany and Miss Carla back there will be thrilled to hear that,” William laughed.

He was jovial, a good man and more importantly, a righteous one, so Reynauld knew he meant no offense or discomfort, but his frown grew regardless. “I’m afraid I’m not…” _Taken. Married. Sworn to another._ No, he wasn’t any of those things any longer, yet still he couldn’t bring himself to put it to words. “...interested.”

Whether it was to Hannah or to the Light or to someone else entirely, Reynauld might as well have still been spoken for and had no mind for anyone smiling and giggling at him on the streets. It was a jarring feeling, and he quickened his pace out of the limelight while rubbing at his bare ring finger. 

“I apologize. Didn’t take you for a family man, Reynauld.”

A long pause, a knife in his gut, then eventually the Crusader shook his head, dropped his hand back to his side, and said what he had never spoken aloud before outside of the confessionals.

“I suppose I’m not. Not anymore.”

It wasn’t even something he had told Dismas, drunken or otherwise, and William seemed to understand his meaning because he placed a hand on his shoulder comfortingly; Reynauld appreciated the gesture, but appreciated them being off the main road even more. They were heading to the barracks the Heir had built with his meager funds and supplies to accommodate the new recruits, the sun getting low on the horizon and Laika at William’s heels. Reynauld eventually shifted the subject, not enjoying the lengthy silence between them.

“What about you? I’m sure either of those women would be happy for your company when you return.”

William hollered another laugh at that, loud and genuine. “Believe it or not, but I ain’t much for romance myself, though I did meet a wonderful lass in the brothel the night I arrived.” Reynauld didn’t ask any other questions, unfamiliar with the brothel or any of the workers within -- save for the man he happened upon with Dismas, though he doubted that’s who the Houndmaster was referring to -- but William continued anyway. “Lynette. Beautiful girl, shy and soft spoken. I’m planning to take every coin I earn on this expedition to help pay off her contract.”

A nice thought, and one Reynauld nearly envied. It sounded so simple, so resolute and dogged that the Crusader could only wonder at William’s determination. By now, Reynauld had a nice stack of gold saved up in his room at the tavern, but for what, he wasn’t sure. He had mindlessly been collecting every glittery object or gold coin he could find, whether his or not, some pipe dream of sending his former family reparations of sorts, maybe. Not that he ever would bring himself to do so. Quite frankly, he couldn’t even be sure they were still alive, as much as that idea haunted him.

“It’s not so unnatural to move on, you know,” William said softly, casually, as if he didn’t even begin to understand the gravity to his words. They stopped Reynauld like a sucker punch, unexpected, painful beyond understanding, agonizing in just how much he hated them, just how much he  _ wanted  _ them. How much he condemned them, how much he begged for them. William stopped, too, and turned around, a small, sympathetic smile on his face. 

Maybe he  _ did  _ understand the weight to his words and the heart-wrenching effects they had on Reynauld.

“It doesn’t mean you don’t treasure what you had, but…” William put his hand on Laika’s head, gave her a scratch behind her ears, gathered his thoughts. “Sometimes what a man needs most is to lay down new roots, find new beginnings. S’why I’m here, anyway.”

Reynauld swayed as if the earth itself was jerked beneath his very feet, unanchored without a steadfast self-resentment, unjustified by a few forgiving words of another tortured soul. The church had pardoned him, the Light had forsaken him, and now this near-stranger seemed to forgive him. Forgive him for what he wasn’t able to bring himself to think about. Forgive him for moving on. Why was it so hard to forgive himself?

_ I can’t _ . He didn’t mean to say that out loud. Had he? He wasn’t sure.

They were standing in front of the barracks and William gave him a strangely knowing, understanding and kind smile. Perhaps he was Light-sent, meant to guide Reynauld to some internal epiphany that he couldn’t see for himself. Certainly not towards the likes of Dismas, so adrift from the Light that he turned in the face of the verses and laughed at the law of the scriptures. Certainly not towards the sinful Highwayman who brought out the worst, the  _ best _ , in Reynauld and demanded more, challenged him for  _ more _ . Certainly not towards the man cut with jagged edges who compelled Reynauld closer despite the pain it brought. 

It was wishful thinking, and it shamed him.

“You’ll get there,” William assured, and Reynauld couldn’t feel the smile that he gave in response. 

He thanked him, gave Laika a quick pat, then said his goodbyes. He wanted to be back to the tavern before Dismas, wanted to ready himself for another night of steadfast strength and unshakeable will if the Highwayman called for it. Wanted to ensure that the smaller man wasn’t about to fling himself into the dark clutches of the Eldritch creatures that demanded him. Wanted the chance to stay close, watchful and wishful.

It was wishful thinking, but so Reynauld secretly wished it regardless.

~~~~~

The night passed without incident, and soon Barristan, Jingles, William, and Alhazred all lined up, packs ready with extra supplies and provisions. The onlookers were silent with anticipation and a thick tension cast over the town square; even the Caretaker was quiet. 

Dismas stood jittery next to Reynauld and he could understand his frustration intimately. After Reynauld had been held back from the first expedition to the Warrens once they managed to slaughter the Swine King, Reynauld felt as if he were a wild dog, nipping at his leash and any who came near, Dismas included. He still felt the shame of snapping at the other man, remembering the way he seemed to take the insults wholeheartedly, welcomingly, as if he had been expecting them all along. It made Reynauld furious with himself.

“They’ll return soon,” Reynauld spoke and smiled softly at him, knowing full-well that it wasn’t enough. It was all he could do, though.

The shorter man snorted, still not wearing the cowl Reynauld had given him -- which he refused to think about long enough to let it sadden him, as long as he had spent in the tailor trying to figure out what in Light’s name made a good scarf. That was fine, though, as Dismas had kept it regardless.

Halfway through the provisioning, Dismas turned and headed back into the tavern, hopefully to find some way to relax until this was all over. Reynauld walked down the line of adventurers, blessing Barristan, moralizing Jingles, clasping palms with William, and when he finally got to Alhazred -- 

The scholar grabbed his arm sleeve and yanked him close, eyes dark and ominous. He roughly pulled Reynauld down far enough to whisper between them, voice low with warning. “I made contact with the devil that haunts the Highwayman,” he said, shocking Reynauld like a splash of ice water. He froze, bent to Alhazred’s whispered admission, spoken like a bad omen, and let him continue. “He’s been charmed by a Siren -- a particularly beguiling one.” 

Reynauld scrunched his eyebrows together, remembering the creature from old folklore; he assumed it was of Eldritch origin, which the Occultist confirmed. “A hideous matriarch, now a vile queen of the aphotic depths. Whatever the Ancestor did to create her, she is hateful and violent and has no place in the sane world.”

“And she is what torments Dismas? How do we stop her?” His eyes were imploring, desperate for more information, but Alhazred shook his head gravely. 

“Other than by slaying her, I’m not sure that she can be.”

The fury overtook Reynauld, the burning rage at this she-devil that consumed his friend and tempted him to her depths. It grit his teeth, clenched his fist, pounded in his ribcage, and all he wanted was to kill her himself, whoever this heinous enchantress was that had Dismas so blinded by and afraid to sleep over.

Alhazred gave him a calming smile and released his arm, voice still low and serious. “We will do what we can, Reynauld. Just keep an eye on Dismas until we return.”

Reynauld nodded at that; he had no intention of letting Dismas far from his sight today, not with an expedition being sent to slay the sea-witch and her followers. Not when Dismas seemed so fragile, so wound tight and ready to crack apart. 

Not when Reynauld could see the bare beginnings of thunderheads on the horizon, sending promises of yet another storm later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, the Siren is doing them a favor with all this forward momentum.
> 
> Before writing all this fluff, my blood pressure was fantastic. Now, though, that remains to be seen. Writing these near-kisses is killing me, I hope it's not too irritating to read.
> 
> Any feedback helps, I really appreciate everyone for reading so far.


	21. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of my side projects are done, time to dedicate my focus to Reymas!! 
> 
> I've actually been dying to write more of Help Wanted, I've just... had too many ambitions elsewhere so my focus has been split. I'll be better soon.
> 
> Anyway, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays. <3

  1. **Consequences**



“Are you  _ sure  _ you don’t want a sedative, Dismas? I promise you that they’re nearly harmless,” Paracelsus eyed the jittery man down her nose, tutting at his bouncing knees beneath the bar top. “The Heir positively  _ loves  _ them.”

“I said I’m  _ fine, _ ” Dismas snapped for the umpteenth time. 

“Sweetheart,” purred Audrey with a smirk to the side of Paracelsus, who had been listening in to the Highwayman fight with Reynauld and Paracelsus over how to best relax. There was laughter in the blonde woman’s tone when she said, “If your eyes were any darker, I’d be grabbing me shovel.” 

Reynauld watched as Dismas flushed red at the Grave Robber’s jab and grabbed his new coat, which was draped messily on the empty barstool next to them, making as if to leave before she caught his shirt sleeve and stopped him in his tracks. “Oh,  _ settle down _ ,” Audrey said as she yanked him back to his seat, then ordered a round of whiskey for the four of them. “I haven’t seen someone  _ this  _ wound tight since my corset days. Lordy, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was back at court between the two of you bellends dancing around each other,” she gestured to the two men with a flick of her dainty wrist and a smile waning at her pale lips.

The four drinks were set down in front of them and Dismas stared at his, hesitant. More hesitant than Reynauld had ever seen him around alcohol. Instead of immediately downing it like Reynauld had known him to do, Dismas rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms and growled, “What are you playing at, woman?”

“Not a damn thing,” she sipped her drink with a whimsical smile. "Which is a shame, really, as I've nothing better to do around this cesspit of a town."

"You could always go pray, shrew,” Reynauld muttered, but grabbed his drink regardless.

Audrey roared her hyena laugh, as if the Crusader just told the greatest joke of her lifetime, then clinked her drink with theirs and threw hers back in one graceful motion. She smacked her lips as she set the glass down and grinned at them. “I was thinking more along the lines of, oh I don’t know -- ” She pulled out a deck of cards. “Strip poker?” 

There was a long silence, but her Cheshire cat grin never faltered until eventually, shockingly, Dismas downed his whiskey in one pull, slammed the empty glass down on the counter and nodded dourly. 

“Count me in.”

Both the Crusader and the Plague Doctor seemed surprised by his response and exchanged glances over the counter. Dismas had barely even left his room for the past two weeks, refusing any and all attempts to include him, so Reynauld tried to think of this as a good thing. A much needed reprieve from his snappy brooding and anxious worrying.

Reynauld sighed, rubbed his eyes, looked at his glass and then stood up, resigned. No way was he going to leave the Highwayman alone in this and agreed to join them, much to his chagrin. With his drink in hand, he followed Dismas and Audrey to a table in the corner, saying a quick prayer in a preemptive apology to the Light for whatever he was about to do. Paracelsus followed them, sipping on her liquor with reverence and a mischievous smile erasing the tired lines that normally framed her green eyes. 

Suddenly, Reynauld was very grateful that Dismas had taught him how to play poker so long ago.

… 

_ A king and a jack. _

Was this a hand to bet on? The Crusader wasn’t sure.

Reynauld never struggled to remember rules, regulations, guidelines. The practice of memorization and decorum had been whipped into him plenty in his youth, so the rules of poker themselves weren’t what Reynauld floundered with. No, instead, he floundered against Dismas’ lewd smile, fingering his cards impatiently while he waited for Reynauld to make a move from across the table. It only tightened the nerves in his gut, the anxiety he felt over making the right move, the wrong move, and the consequences that would follow either play.

If he lost the hand.

Almost worse, if he  _ won  _ the hand.

More than anything, Reynauld was a strategist and a leader. He had led hundreds of battles in the bloody crusades, held the line, charged the rank at all costs. Split second decisions that lost lives but won wars, valiant and zealous speeches that enflamed the hearts of better men, an iron will that crushed any doubt that might have wavered him in the face of death and worse.

Dismas drummed his fingers against his cards, wicked grin never leaving his face in his impatience. Maybe, in this case, it would be better if Reynauld just --

“Deary, you can’t really be thinking of  _ folding  _ on the first round, can you?” came Audrey’s confident drawl, toying and teasing. Her full lips were quirked into a smile, clearly reading the hesitation evident on Reynauld’s face as he peeked at his cards again, brows knit in wary consternation. This was frowned upon by the Light, not just gambling but  _ what  _ they were betting with each round.  _ More  _ than frowned upon, surely, he was tempting temptation itself.

“ _ Shove it _ , lass, who’s to say this isn’t just a part of his grand strategy?” Dismas was quick to shoot the blonde woman a glare, and she sniffed back, wholly unconvinced by Reynauld’s stalling. “Though I do think ‘anyone who folds too often has to strip’ would be a good addition to the rules,” he added with that same sly smile as he turned back to Reynauld.

Paracelsus nodded her head, authoritative as the dealer, and so it was -- which admittedly made the game that much more dangerous going forward.

_ Light, grant me the strength to overcome whatever happens next. _

After a moment of deliberation and a quick prayer to the heavens, Reynauld nodded and tapped his cards, jaw set. Audrey’s impish smile was back and she quickly tapped hers, then waited for Paracelsus to deal the fourth street in, then the fifth, patiently waiting to see if the night would start out for or against him. 

His double kings ace-high just barely beat out Dismas’ two jacks, and when Audrey gleefully announced Dismas the loser at the table, Reynauld wasn’t sure if  _ he  _ felt victorious or defeated by the outcome of the hand. Certainly, he felt embarrassed as Dismas rolled his eyes and shrugged out of his coat. It draped down his shoulders, not unlike when Reynauld had removed it for him once -- though he wasn’t sure why he was remembering that particular night  _ now _ , of all times -- and Dismas tossed it to the ground with a  _ hmph  _ where it crumpled in a pile. Light be good, but this was going to be a long night.

Paracelsus dealt again, and Reynauld had another unsure hand. He watched the others, watched them look under their cards, watched them sit back, watched them watch everyone else. He tried to read them the way Dismas taught him to; Audrey was grinning madly, which was no different than normal, Paracelsus was a stone wall of a woman, not a reflection of emotion to hint one way or another, and Dismas bit his cheek, either holding back a smile or a frown, hard to read as ever. 

This was a game of chance and deception, and Reynauld felt wildly out of his depth at both.

They each went around and knocked their affirmation -- and again, Dismas lost the hand with a roll of his eyes and a flick of his cards, then stopped to consider what article of clothing to remove now. The Highwayman reached for his cowl, as if on instinct, then stopped short and glanced at Reynauld. The other man hadn’t worn the blue cowl and gloves Reynauld had given him days prior, which was still fine with him, especially now.

“ _ Shit _ ,” he heard the man mutter, as if realizing he was at a disadvantage without them. A moment passed, and Reynauld couldn’t help himself. The stress of the expedition, the stress of the storms, the stress of Dismas searching his body for what to shed and throw to the ground next.

He laughed. For the life of him, he shook with laughter until Audrey was howling along with him, pounding on the table with her dainty hands, then eventually Paracelsus cracked and crowed as well. Dismas sat there, ears red, face turned in a scowl and muttered something beneath his breath, “This is what I get for not cheating, sod it all.” It threw them into another fit, stupid and mindless and full of mirth until Dismas finally broke and chuckled as well. The amusement felt nice, refreshing after too long without being able to relax, and seeing the Highwayman looking less angry, less weary and deathbound, it lifted Reynauld’s spirits even further.

Until he heard a tiny  _ click  _ of Dismas’ belt buckle, one of three, and a sharp slither of it being yanked loose. 

His laughter was interrupted then, followed up by the harsh clatter of the belt being thrown to the wood floor, suddenly too-aware of the game they were playing and the inevitable outcome. Reynauld swallowed, looked to his untouched glass of whiskey, said a quick prayer, then downed the entire thing in one long, stinging gulp.

… 

How quickly the tides turned after that, and by the time they had drawn the attention of others, Audrey was on a bitter losing streak that had her down to nearly her undergarments, save for her leggings and an impressive amount of jewelry, most likely pilfered from some corpse or another. She did nothing to hide her indecency and instead had her hands on the table, hair messy and laughter gone.

“I smell a cheat,” she growled towards the other end of the table where Dismas sat wearing much of her clothing, plus Paracelsus’ spiked pauldrons and Reynauld’s too-large wrist guards, which earlier he had to insist that armor counted as clothing. If he hadn’t, he’d be nearly as bare as the Grave Robber.

Dismas just grinned wolfishly beneath the brim of her own hat back at her, eyes glittering like gold. He had lost his coat and two belts, but not much else, and Reynauld was equally suspicious of his luck.

“It ain’t my fault you don’t know when to quit, minx,” he shot back as Paracelsus dealt again. Boudica and The Heir had joined the group of onlookers, the latter of whom had ordered them all a drink -- to which Audrey shot down immediately after looking at her cards. Reynauld sipped his, enjoying the heady buzz he had gotten from his few rounds, while Dismas and Audrey were drink for drink with one another, seeming almost in a competition. One Dismas would have been sure to win, if he wasn’t so out of sorts from the weeks prior.

_ A two and a four. Nothing good. _

Reynauld was at least confident in that, and knew he should fold.  _ Very _ confident in that, but perhaps -- Dismas and Audrey were bickering still, although Paracelsus had a too-wise, too-knowing smile on her face when she watched as he instead tapped the back of his cards to 'stay'. Maybe Reynauld  _ did  _ have a tell, unbeknownst to him.

The two rogues were still arguing over who looked better in Audrey’s pointed hat, so Paracelsus cleared her throat and placed a hand on each of them, then said, “Yes, yes, you’re both lovely, now will you flip your cards?”

“A two and a four, huh?” Dismas raised an eyebrow at him when they finally complied and finished the round. It was the worst hand by far, and Reynauld smiled back at Dismas sheepishly. “Thought I taught you better than that, Crusader.”

An awkward laugh, then Reynauld undid the leather sash at his waist that kept his tunic tucked in and tossed it to the table for Dismas to drape over his shoulders as the winner. He had already kicked off his shoes, then threw in his wrist guards and vambraces a while ago. For how conservatively he had been playing, Reynauld was very aware of how little clothing he had left to give before he’d be forced to embarrass himself. 

“Surprising move,” came Audrey’s slightly slurred drawl. “For how safe you’ve been playing things so far. Another part of your ‘ _ grand strategy _ ’?”

Reynauld threw his cards back in and Paracelsus was quick to redeal. An ace and another jack, which Reynauld faintly recalled to be a winning hand in another game Dismas had taught him. A good bet, he felt, and sure enough, he won the hand. Surprisingly, Audrey won the next round and eagerly yanked her hat from Dismas’ head, which seemed to improve her mood by leaps and bounds. It felt like hours flew by like this, articles of clothing being traded back and forth, won and lost, hand after hand, shuffle after shuffle, into relatively late in the night.

The Caretaker, the Heir, Boudica and even eventually Junia all watched on with the rest of the drunken merriment, and the Vestal covered her blushing cheeks with her hands and bit her lower lip as she looked between their varying states of undress.

Eventually, the tides turned again, this time in Paracelsus’ favor, and Dismas was slowly stripped of all his winnings once more. One by one, the pauldrons, the vambraces, Audrey’s lacy undershirt and more all went to Paracelsus who adorned every article of clothing with pride. There was laughter and singing, drinks flowing freely, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like Dismas’ smiles came easy, his shoulders looser than Reynauld had seen them in a while, the stress gone from his dark eyes.

And Reynauld could feel it too, feel the heavy burden being lifted with each dirty joke, each flick of his lingering gaze and the draw of a certain smile --

Until he heard it.

Thunder, off in the distance, just barely audible over the raucous laughter and drunken singing surrounding them like a security blanket, their own little bubble of revelry. Reynauld stiffened and looked to Dismas, who hadn’t seemed to have noticed the faraway rumbling.  _ Good _ . Reynauld would ensure the other man could enjoy the night while it lasted, however much longer that might be.

“Two aces, eh?” Dismas rolled his eyes at Audrey’s peal of triumphant cackling, who had easily won the round though she was still mostly down to her skivvies now that she had her wide brim hat back. “You sleeping with the dealer or something?”

Paracelsus, surprisingly, hiccuped and blushed a shade of red deeper than the drunken color already tinting her cheeks pink, and Audrey was beside herself with amusement. “If I were, you’d just be jealous that you didn’t think of it.”

Another roll of thunder drew Reynauld’s attention away and he glanced towards the window, still worried what the other man might do when he -- 

His full attention snapped back to their table like a whip being cracked, a match being struck as Dismas undid his shirt, button by button, muttering obscenities until finally it fell open. It hung on him, the light color of the fabric a harsh contrast against his tan skin as he struggled to be free of it in his drunken state. Any urge Reynauld might have felt to help him from it was quashed by the crowd of onlookers, Paracelsus and Audrey included, all laughing merrily as he yanked it off and tossed it at the Grave Robber. 

“Thanks, darling, but white is  _ certainly  _ more suited for our Crusader here,” she grinned as she plopped the still-warm shirt in Reynauld’s lap, though he was busy looking everywhere but the Highwayman who had his arms folded over his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a web of scars latticed up Dismas’ right arm, stark pale streaks, and it shifted something within Reynauld uncomfortably. 

His hideskin pants followed the next round, much to the catcalls and wolf whistles of their audience, and Dismas sat back down roughly in only his undershorts, ears red and face in a scowl. 

“Is it a tad drafty in here, or is it just me?” Audrey had tears at her eyes from her buoyant laughter, echoed by the rest of the gathering, and Dismas’ knee bounced beneath the table anxiously. Even Paracelsus, flush with drink, was giggling merrily at Dismas’ poor luck. Reynauld was the only one who remained quiet, eyes hard and focused on his two cards when he heard it again.

When they  _ all  _ heard it.

Even over the sounds of their festivities, a peal of thunder rang from outside, deep and ominous. 

Dismas was alert immediately, knee jolting against the table as if he’d been struck. His posture was no longer relaxed, but ramrod and rigid, eyes round with recognition and hand clutched at his scar instead of being loose and laid-back as it was. His gaze flicked up to Reynauld’s, wide with… with panic.

The party was over.

“Scared of a little storm, love?” Audrey cooed sarcastically, but Paracelsus put a hand on her arm to quiet her. The mood changed immediately between the three, between anyone who was savvy to Dismas’ nighttime horrors. The Heir broke apart the crowd, scattering any onlookers who might have noticed Dismas’ change of demeanor, loss of composure. Reynauld never broke eye contact, even as another roll of thunder shook the air and caused Dismas to flinch. He knew it was coming.

They both did.

Eventually, Reynauld grabbed their loose clothing and belongings, then gestured to the stairs leading up to their rooms. Dismas nodded in understanding, tried to stand and steady himself, stumbled against the table. After weeks without a drink, his tolerance didn’t seem to be what it was, so Reynauld reached an arm around him to take most of his weight and led him away. As he did, Reynauld caught Junia’s attention and affixed her with a meaningful gaze.

_ Be ready tonight. _

She nodded grimly; after Dismas finally told her and the others what had been happening to him, Reynauld knew Junia said a prayer for him every night, wrought with worry when the sky darkened. No one seemed to know what was happening to the Highwayman, and Reynauld only hoped that William and the others would manage to kill this beguiling Siren before the storm hit the Hamlet in full.

The two men hobbled to the base of the stairs and looked up -- this was a familiar dance for them, and Reynauld smiled softly. Dismas didn’t, and that worried line etched his brow once more, tired and fraught and pitting Reynauld’s stomach with anger. Anger at this creature that had him so afraid to relax and unwind. Ascending the staircase took a handful of minutes, with Dismas swaying at every few steps, but eventually they stopped in front of Dismas’ door, quiet and tense.

Dismas opened the door for them, hands shaking with each strike of thunder outside, and they stepped inside then broke apart. Dismas seemed steady enough for Reynauld to place their mismatched pile of clothing next to the bed, then walked to the open window to close both it and the shutters. There was rain in the air and Reynauld doubted Dismas would have had the mind to close it himself. As he struggled with the latch, a violent gust of wind suddenly shook the tavern and fought with him, as if resisting his efforts to close the window, but he was _stronger_ , more determined than the storm once more, and the lock clicked resolutely. Satisfied, Reynauld turned from the window and was momentarily distracted by something from the corner of his eye, hooking his attention. 

On Dismas’ dresser, next to his newly crafted weapons and old bloodied neckerchief, was the cowl and gloves Reynauld had given him, taken out of the packaging and folded neatly, delicately from the looks of it. Nestled within the fabric was a… a silver necklace, and neighboring that was a large conch shell, grotesque, beaded with barnacles, and haunting. Out of place, piled with the equipment and trinkets, stark in its blemishes by comparison. Dismas’ valuables, scant and meager, and Reynauld was tempted to get a closer look when he heard a loud crash behind him.

Cursing, holding his head, Dismas was sprawled on the ground, nowhere near as stable as Reynauld had originally thought, it seemed. He crossed the floor to him in three quick strides, crouching down to check for injuries. 

“Are you alright?”

“Was kneeling over to take my pants off ‘n fell…” Dismas growled, rubbing the back of his head. It wasn’t an answer he was asking for, but it made Reynauld chuckle as he situated himself on the floor with the drunken man, not ready for the horrors that the night promised should he send them to bed just yet. He crossed his legs, back against the wall, tunic still hanging loose as he looked down at Dismas, smile soft. 

“You aren’t  _ wearing  _ pants, Dismas.”

Dismas waved a hand at him, nonchalant, and muttered, “Forgot.” Their night of strip poker had been ridiculous and much needed, as opposed to it as Reynauld had originally been. He prayed a quick verse in an afterthought, and Dismas seemed to read his mind and smiled up at him coyly. “I see you still have yours on. Guess I taught you too well, didn’t I?”

Reynauld chuckled again, watching the way the sound drew Dismas’ full attention, widened his pupils, and Reynauld looked down at his empty hands, large and calloused and bare. “Guess so.”

They fell to silence after that, Reynauld feeling far too sober for how close Dismas was, nearly naked, clearing his throat and seeming as if he wanted to say something. Instead, Dismas suddenly winced and sat up, then touched the back of his head again and checked for blood. “For fuck’s sake, y’think Junia does housecalls?”

There was a pause, a moment’s hesitation before Reynauld reached out, gloveless, breathless, and cupped the back of Dismas’ head where his hand had been. His touch was soft and tender and he spoke the holy words that let him tend to small injuries, a minor battle heal that had been taught to him by holier men back in the crusades. It couldn’t do much, certainly not compared to their Vestal or Occultist, but a soft glow washed the tight pinch of pain in Dismas’ face away, which was quickly replaced by a wave of shock as he turned to him.

“You can heal?”

Smiling, holy Light passing from his palm to Dismas’ throbbing head, Reynauld shrugged casually. “It can’t save lives or triage, but it was useful for small annoyances in the past.”  _ Far in the past.  _ Reynauld hadn’t used his battle heal in ages, and he had been hesitant to try it now.

By the way Dismas’ face softened, his taut body slowly unwound, a gentle sound parted his lips, Reynauld was glad he had. His heart picked up traitorously, his mouth dried against his will, and the Light vanished from him as Dismas leaned back down, only this time his head settled in Reynauld’s lap instead of the hard ground. Reynauld held completely still, as if he might scare away an untamed animal, as if he might surprise even himself and do something… something shameful, something burning in his veins like wildfire. 

Dismas peered up at him with those dark whiskey eyes, all earth and gold, as if he could see right through Reynauld’s thin temperance, and smiled. “You’re full of surprises, Reynauld.”

He held his hands still, now empty and wanting, and spoke lowly. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Dismas.”

The wind howled against the shutters, announcing the onset of rain, and Dismas winced. His eyes flicked to the window, then quickly returned to Reynauld’s, unsettled, and as if to distract himself, Dismas bit his lip then said, “So tell me.”

It was a simple request, made logical sense, and was appropriate for friends to share their pasts as Dismas already had, long ago. Really, it wasn’t anything exceptional, wasn’t an unreasonable expectation, wasn’t even out of the norm, as so many others in the Hamlet had asked after Reynauld’s dark past to no avail. But Reynauld could tell Dismas felt him shift uncomfortably beneath him, and those umber eyes softened up at him. 

“You don’t have to.”

Reynauld smiled at him, knowing how viciously protective Dismas was of his own secrets that he had drunkenly shared, knowing he respected Reynauld’s privacy regardless. But Reynauld didn’t need to hide his shame from this man, much as he instinctively wanted to, didn’t need to fear scorn and retribution. So he steeled himself, and spoke, “I know. It’s not very interesting -- ” Dismas snorted at that. “ -- and it’s not something I talk about often.”

He paused, then, deciding what to say, and Dismas waited patiently. More patient than he had ever seen the man, honestly. Gathering his wits and fortitude, Reynauld decided to start with the basics, cold and matter-of-fact as it was.

“I was raised in a small abbey in a mining town,” his voice was detached, as if telling the story of another, but Dismas was quiet as he listened. “Where my father was the head abbot and had a reputation for being fierce in his holy pursuits.” He saw Dismas frown at that, then he closed his eyes and Reynauld hid a grin from him; the Highwayman was more protective of those around him than he would ever care to admit, Reynauld knew. “The other children in town were generally put to work by the time they could hold a pickaxe, so they resented me for having a clean face while they were covered in soot, I think.” 

Memories of the other children flooded him, large with work compared to his small frame as they would tease him, hold him down, kick him and worse -- minor inconveniences compared to the other pains he had suffered at that age unbeknownst to them. Still, Reynauld remembered how he would ache for a friend that wasn’t just another apostle boy who would tattle on him at the smallest infracture. The children of the church had essentially been charged with spying on each other, keeping one another in line with the fear of punishment should one of them act out of line and get ratted out to the abbots. It was usually Reynauld who was tattled on.

He wasn’t the only one afraid of his father, after all.

When Reynauld had snuck five times his share of the communion wine, then went back for more and was eventually caught when he couldn’t stand straight, his father had been furious. Still, it was a funny enough story for the most part, so Reynauld told it to Dismas, save for the end, who cracked a smile with his eyes still closed.

“Lil’ drunken Reynauld, eh? Never had you pegged as the rebellious type.”

Reynauld huffed a hollow laugh at that, at how misguided and inaccurate that was where the Light and the holy abbots were concerned. “I was the biggest miscreant alive, according to my father.”

The smile fled Dismas’ face in lieu of a scowl and harsh words in response. “Your father was a fucking  _ ponce _ , with all due respect.”

A pause, a sharp inhale, and a true laugh shook him, then, jolting the nerves from Reynauld as he leaned his head back against the wall and bellowed out. It’s not like he had never  _ thought  _ the rude words and worse for his father, trapped in the confines of his mind where they festered as the fear of God and became self-loathing, but to hear an outsider say as much… To hear  _ Dismas  _ say as much… It ruined him, it clenched at his heart and brought tears to his eyes. Happy tears, the same ones that pricked him while they were playing strip poker and he was drunk on whiskey and levity. 

When he regained his composure, he looked down and saw Dismas grinning up at him, wild and shirtless, and Reynauld swallowed thickly. They were too close, too close for Reynauld not to avert his eyes from the Light that looked down on him in this moment. Too close for him to not reach out, slow, nervous, and graze the hair at Dismas’ forehead. He brushed it back and let his fingers slide further, entwining the onyx locks between his fair fingers, stark and alabaster in comparison. 

And Dismas’ eyes fluttered shut and Reynauld’s throat clenched painfully for what felt like minutes, gently running his hands through the strands like liquid jet, sable and raven and reminiscent. He waited for it to pass, for words to form, and continued.

“I heard you, you know.” It was a halting sentence, unsure of how to begin, how to end. “In the abbey. Just bits and pieces,” he explained, watching Dismas’ every move. The man seemed to be holding his breath, but was otherwise unfazed, like he had been expecting that. Reynauld’s memory was broken, a jagged thing that didn’t fit together, between when he had been cleaved by the Swine King to when he had woken up at the abbey, alone, dazed, expectant. He had heard Dismas, like the man had been speaking through a dozen barriers, worlds away, words fogged like a hot breath on a cold glass, but he had heard the other man. 

Eventually, Dismas grunted, impatient the way Reynauld always knew him to be when the silence stretched on for too long, and spoke in that familiar tone, lazy and nonchalant. “What did you hear?”

Reynauld’s answering chuckle had Dismas shifting in his lap, his pale hand still gently threaded in his hair, and the Crusader enjoyed the feel of it while he could. This wouldn’t last, he knew, so he savored the transition of soft stands to rough stubble at his sides, savored the way Dismas’ eyebrow would twitch whenever Reynauld grazed the ridge of his ear, swooped low to his neck, tracked back up to his scalp. It was… oddly intimate, and Reynauld knew he wasn’t drunk enough to blame this on the alcohol. 

But Dismas didn’t have to know that.

“I heard you singing,” he said playfully, hand calling goosebumps to Dismas’ neck whenever he would trace a certain pattern. The back of his neck, up behind his ears, outlining where his hand had healed. Reynauld did it again, enjoying the way the other man inhaled softly at it. “And I heard you let me win at cards.”

He exhaled through his nose sharply then, eyes still closed but glowering all the same. “What else?”

The Crusader racked his brain, his splintered memory, trying to determine what had been a dream and what had been overheard. He had ideas, had thoughts of Dismas confessing… something, something meaningful and meant for no one else’s ears, but Reynauld couldn’t be sure if that was just a fever dream of his. Without being sure, he didn’t want to let on, so he just brought up the only other thing he could remember.

“You asked if I was a family man.” He was sure about that, the way it had rocked him, even in his slumber. The way he had recoiled from it in his mind, recoiled from the question and the answer and the man who asked it of him.

“And?”

Reynauld hesitated, though he wasn’t sure why. He had already told William, already broken his shameful oath of silence, so why shouldn’t he tell Dismas? Why did it feel more personal telling the man who had already accepted all of his other many faults? He sought the strength to speak, to clear his throat clenched tight with uncertainty, and spoke, “I was.” And it was a hard truth, an unfinished truth, and Dismas deserved the entirety of it.

“I was just a youth, barely past my adolescence, when I met my wife.”

Dismas’ eyes flew open at that, as Reynauld knew they would, and he grit his teeth at the well of memories that came to him unbidden. They were foggy, silhouetted ghosts of his past, but they were there and they were his, shamed as he was by them. It hurt beyond belief to think of Hannah and Isaac, but putting them to words felt… strangely comforting. Cathartic. They had existed, they had loved him and called him theirs, once, and he to them. But no longer. Speaking of them was like a festering wound feeling fresh air for the first time, terrible and wonderful and foreign. Freeing and agonizing all the same, and Reynauld had never realized how much he needed it. Dismas was still as he waited for him to keep going and it gave him strength.

“Hannah. Her name was Hannah.” It felt like a sin to speak it aloud. “She was beautiful in every way possible, feisty and clever. She made me into a better man,” his voice was steady as he spoke of her and it surprised him. “I didn’t deserve her,  _ or  _ the child she bore us.”

He looked down and saw that Dismas had closed his eyes once more, jaw clenched, neither smiling or frowning. Hard to read as ever. 

“We had moved from the mining village to our own plot of land, just a few meager acres. Just enough to start our lives as farmers.” Dismas snorted, as if he couldn’t imagine Reynauld as anything other than a bloodied, Light-fueled killing machine. That hurt him more than he cared to think about, so he cleared his throat and continued, “Not long after, she had Isaac. We were coinless, but we managed. I became a knight for the extra money and land it granted us, and my greed was my downfall.” Then he fell to silence, pensive and aching and strange.

“The crusades,” Dismas finally said, eyes still shut. 

Reynauld nodded absently, realizing Dismas hadn’t noticed, and whispered a soft, mournful, “ _ Yes. _ ”

“You religious zealots and your holy wars,” muttered the other man, angrily. Dismas hated all things to do with the Light and the chantry, hated the endless wars that Reynauld had carved himself through and hated their grand losses, their grander victories. Yet after all this time, Reynauld found that he couldn’t blame him.

“We were told it was for a good cause.” It was a poor defense, shameful and hollow, but it was his only one.

They fell to silence then, not awkward necessarily, but tense as Reynauld was judged. By Dismas, by the Light. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, but it was unpleasant and unhappy as usual, until eventually Dismas broke it with too-kind words, undeserved and so very cherished. 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t hate you.” And the context was strange, as if an inside joke that Reynauld was only partially privy to, like a dark secret of his dreams long past. Detached. Separate. But made for him regardless. Whatever dark place those words grew from, firm and resolute though they were, Reynauld drank them in like man dying of thirst. “I might hate the others, but I don’t hate  _ you _ .”

“You should. I’ve killed so many people, Dismas,” and his voice surprised him once more. He had been so pragmatic about it all these years, so passive and practical that he had never once imagined his voice cracking at it, not now. Cracking at the bloodshed, the tears, the deaths by his hand, endless and rising him through the ranks with each stab, each slash pushing him closer to the wealth and riches promised to him as a knight taking up his holy banners.  _ ‘The sooner we kill them, the sooner we return home,’ _ his leading officers would say. What  _ he  _ would say to his recruits when he became a leading officer himself, hands tainted red and smiles hollow.

Eventually, he didn’t even want the money or the land. Eventually, he didn’t even want to return home. 

He killed because he killed. Because that’s what was expected of him, what he was good at, what he  _ enjoyed _ after a time _.  _ The sickening reverence that came with seeing his enemies dead at his feet, enemies of the Light, desperate women and children piled atop the graves of the able he had already vanquished. It was as if another force would overtake him as the blood fell and scorched the earth, maddening and all-consuming, that left him when the violence was over to deal with the consequences and the trauma. The nightmares. The emptied eyes and the mourning families now under their holy occupation.

After nearly a decade of this, Reynauld couldn’t bring those horrors back to his idyllic life, back to his family that wouldn’t recognize a man so broken and ripped at the seams. Whatever love Hannah and Isaac might have managed to spare him, Reynauld didn’t deserve it.

“And then, after slaughtering countless women and children, I turned my back on my own.”

Silence. He awaited his judgement, the mirth and happiness squeezed from his chest to make way for his shame, the disgrace he brought to his family, to the Light, to himself. Since coming to this Hamlet, conscripted to the eradication of evil forces made real, it was so easy to push it from his mind. But here, with Dismas quiet in his lap, eyes still closed with an unreadable expression, tinged with whiskey, he couldn’t seem to hold back the dam of pain. Finally, the other man spoke over the gentle raindrops hitting the roof.

“You did what you had to,” Dismas shrugged as if it were nothing. As if he understood better than most, and Reynauld grit his teeth in defiance. “If it weren’t you, it woulda been some other kid taken from his family and sent to kill others, sent to die for someone else's ideals.” Reynauld wanted to reject the idea, wanted to believe that he was more than a warm body meant to serve the unfathomable headcount for the crusades. Wanted to believe in a divine purpose to justify the soul-crushing massacre by his command that led him to turn from those who loved him at the end.

He knew better.

Dismas continued, voice gentler after opening his eyes to Reynauld’s pain, his internal strife that he felt outlined on his face in grief. “ _ Hey _ . If being some idiot kid with no concept of life or death, picked up by the brigands and made to be a ruthless killer has taught me anything, it’s that people like you and I are expendable in these greater wars.” 

He felt his seams tugging somewhere deep within, pulling apart and bleeding freely as he grit back the pain, face  _ almost  _ stoic. He shouldn’t have brought this up. He deserved his father’s whip, his father’s scorn and repentance, deserved to bleed for his crimes and more. He deserved the noose for what he did to an entire country, deserved damnation for what he did to Hannah and Isaac. What he  _ didn’t  _ deserve was this man’s understanding and forgiveness.

He should have known better when it came to Dismas. 

“We did what they required of us,” Dismas spoke so softly that Reynauld had to strain to hear him over the rattling of the window, the roar of the wind. His heart clenched at the words, welcomed them, resented them. “Then we were left alone with our own devices to deal with the aftermath.”

There was truth in those words, somewhere, but Reynauld turned from it and instead gasped, “I ran from the only good thing in my life.” Selfish. Pathetic. Painfully honest. 

And Dismas didn’t flinch, merely smiled, gently, beautifully, and Reynauld was again hopelessly reminiscent. “I nearly did as well,” he whispered, and the Crusader broke. He bowed, shamed, shamed that the woman he once loved was gone by his own doing, shamed that he had found someone else to spread that warmth through him when there was only pain, shamed that he welcomed it. It felt like a curse, a punishment, to be given what he couldn’t take for forsaking that which he once had.

Greedy. Insatiable. Full of sin and more.

Dismas continued, as if Reynauld weren’t falling apart above him. "As for Hannah, she must’ve been a lucky woman for the years she got with you.” A pause, then he softly added, “And if she's as good as you say, then I'm sure she's forgiven you."

Reynauld shook after that, trembled with tears that stung his eyes and threatened to fall, tears that had been trapped for decades as his wife’s memory all but faded from existence. Would she have forgiven him? Would Isaac have? He would never know, and merely had to take Dismas’ word for it. Dismas, William, the stern abbots who listened to his sobs, his pleas, from within the confessionals. He didn’t deserve to know, not after leaving them, but these were his consequences. 

These consequences that reached up, timid, and brushed a wayward tear that must have escaped his crumbling control. Those consequences that looked to him as if he were virtue incarnate, even after rendering himself open and raw from his darkest depths. This consequence in his lap that invited him into its warmth, flush with drink and something else, something that tugged at the outskirts of Reynauld’s threadbare restraint.

Something reminiscent. 

He swallowed, thickly, in a familiar limbo between the Light and all that was Dismas. It was intoxicating, similar to alcohol in that it burned within him, clouded his head, and loosened his inhibitions, but was something else entirely in how it thrummed at his heart, lidded his eyes, and made him more unsure than he had ever been. 

These stolen moments, this wishful thinking, this shirtless and pantless temptation spread in his lap and whispering words of forgiveness. His curse, his punishment, his consequence. All that was his for the taking that would damn him further if he ever did.

Reynauld said a prayer and closed his eyes.

"Thank you, Dismas,” he spoke past his tight chest, his tighter throat. “She would've liked you, you know."

The thunder was getting closer, the storm nearly upon them, and Dismas cracked his normal smirk at Reynauld. "Well, most women do." And just like that, they were past it. Past Reynauld’s abhorrent origin that he hid from the world, past the dark secrets that haunted him. It felt too easy, too comfortable, to return to their natural banter after such a disclosure.

But they did, and for that, Reynauld was grateful. 

"And that brothel man, of course."

Dismas rolled his eyes and flushed, as he always did when Reynauld teased him with that day in the hallway. “Yeah, yeah, make your jokes, dirty old man.  _ He  _ certainly wasn’t complaining when he left with all my gold, the sod.” He scoffed, as if still bitter about it, and Reynauld felt the pull of something uncomfortable between them. Something… _looming_ , just outside of his vision, his thoughts. He almost knew what it was.

Their eyes met, and so bare, Reynauld could see the other man swallow, the bob of his Adam’s apple outlined in his throat, neck freshly shaved of stubble. Saw the tan expanse of skin just below his throat that dipped to his collarbones, to his chest, hard with angles and muscles and scars. And so  _ many  _ scars, not unlike his own. This was a man who had succumbed to violence, to that entity that filled him and drew blood whether from others or himself, who awoke afterwards to the pain of regret. To the consequences. This was a man he didn’t have to hide his own scars from.

With shaken confidence and a nervous momentum, Reynauld raised his hand that wasn’t still threaded in those black locks, fingertips running along the short-shaved sides and weaving back into the longer strands atop his head, and placed his free hand against Dismas’ right arm. The arm covered in Shambler scars, the arm that had moved and bled to free them from its grasp when Reynauld thought him nothing more than a lowly brigand thief. 

He could feel Dismas freeze, tense, but slowly relaxed as Reynauld traced down the pale, silvery lines like lightning, a filigree of past pain webbed into his skin. At his touch, Reynauld could see the goosebumps that he beckoned to Dismas’ body, gentle and tender against the too-hot skin. Reynauld was  _ alive _ , so alive and so helpless and so succumbed to that heady, darkened gaze like upturned earth. 

Softly, the space between them alight with the heavy purr of their heartbeats, drawn taut with that  _ something _ , Dismas haltingly asked, “Have you ever been with a man?”

That wasn’t it, not exactly. That brought the looming feeling closer, crowding him and closing his throat from all words, but that wasn’t what he felt just out of reach. Speechless, all Reynauld could do was shake his head. He watched as Dismas sucked in a breath, bit his cheek, gathered his courage, then finally asked,

“Would you ever?”

_ That  _ was it, that strange weight that brought down even the gravity around them both until Reynauld could only hear the drum of the rain, the beat of his heart, the catch of his breath as he floated. He watched Dismas absorb his expression, whatever it may be, eyebrows knitted tight and looking far more vulnerable and nervous than Reynauld had ever seen him. He wanted to lie, couldn't lie, and whispered the only word he knew.

"Maybe."

It was a cop out, a non-definitive assertion that was as honest as he could ever be as a damaged holy man.  _ Maybe _ . Maybe he could, maybe he had thought about it. Maybe he wanted it, foreign and forbidden as it was, and maybe he was scared of how  _ much _ he might have wanted it. Maybe he was afraid, afraid and excited, to how close he was to it, in this moment, the only man to maybe incite this in him laid almost naked and wanting beneath him. 

Maybe it was just at his fingertips, drunk and his for the taking, and maybe Reynauld was desperate for that.

He could see the way Dismas swallowed again, eyes cautious, hand slow as it crept beneath his loosened tunic and Reynauld mentally cursed himself for tempting fate, cursed himself for so willingly betting away his belt on a two and a four. Cursed himself for being a fool, but then that was lost as skin touched skin and all doubt was scalded from his mind.

Dismas' hand was hesitant, as if giving Reynauld every possible out, every moment made to end at his mere command. 

It never came. Even if Reynauld wanted to stop it, his voice was trapped in his chest as Dismas inched his fingers up the long planes of his stomach, his chest. Dismas' touch was searing, marking him almost, a trail of fire from the tips of his fingers to his wide palm as it trailed along the contours and burned Reynauld alive. He parted his lips as if to demand that he stop, and Dismas paused, but only a sharp exhale passed his teeth which he clenched shut again as Dismas continued his trek. 

His touch was gentle, exploring, as if mapping every inch of Reynauld's body, making him shiver from the overwhelming sensation. Of being close, of being…  _ wanted _ . Of wanting back. He knew Dismas could feel his want, shameless, and his eyes glimmered up at him with a heady lust. Just for him, and Reynauld was struck speechless at the very idea.

Reynauld drank in the sight of him, heart racing, mind blank as Dismas' calloused thumb graced his nipple, shocking him. His body lurched of its own accord, embarrassingly so, and Reynauld finally spoke with halting words, breathy and so unfamiliar to him. 

" _ Dismas _ ," he strained as that thumb arched back down, against his other nipple, already perked hard with expectation of the Highwayman's hand. This was the most Reynauld had been touched since his marriage, and his body was hyper-sensitive, needy and forgotten, wanting to smolder alive at Dismas' wanton whim. "You've. Been drinking," he managed, as if a great ordeal past the pulsing in his veins, so alive with energy and wanting, desperate to be spent. He was like a spark of fire with too much to burn but nowhere to go, maddening in his desire of the other man staring up at him with lust-lidded eyes.

"So have you," he murmured, hand dipping lower to Reynauld's stomach, his navel, further still and Reynauld was gone. 

His head tilted back heavily, eyes squeezed shut and chest full as Dismas teased with the hem of his pants, taut and straining with unholy anticipation. Reynauld was too shocked, too embarrassed, too frustrated. His hand clenched in Dismas' hair and the other man groaned out a soft noise, desperate sounding, and Reynauld felt that straight to his core, his groin.  _ By the Light _ , he thought, mindless, prayerless, forsaken. His other hand stroked down Dismas’ scarred arm to his elbow, touch firm but careful, as if trying blindly to encourage the Highwayman for more. 

Dismas was drunk,  _ more  _ than drunk, really. A fingertip slipped beneath the hem of his pants, just barely, but just enough to fill Reynauld with promises of unfulfilled desires, sinful and shameful and months overdue and he gasped out.

"Tell me, Reynauld," Dismas' voice was husky, all velvet and ardor, and Reynauld could almost taste it on his tongue. "You drink and gamble and sin in  _ 'moderation' _ ." More of those fingers slipped in, past his barrier, past his vows and shame, grazed further to where he needed them to touch most. "Can you also fuck in  _ 'moderation' _ ?"

And he stilled, fresh with the realization of what he was about to do and guilt washing over him like a deep sea of penance. Dismas seemed to read the change in him, as if expecting it, and stopped, hands still so close to where Reynauld was desperate for them to be, air tense and breaths caught. Reynauld squeezed his eyes shut, bit his tongue until he tasted copper, tore himself from the tender warmth filling from head to toe, and slowly the self-loathing set in like ice as he grit his teeth in frustration and ground out the last thing he ever wanted to say.

"You know I can't."

The mood vanished, as did the hand beneath his tunic, and he felt lost. Bereft. Pathetic. 

Dismas looked hurt, disappointed but unsurprised and that shamed him further. He wanted to give the other man what he wanted, wanted to give  _ himself  _ what he wanted, but after a lifetime of being told he couldn't have this, Reynauld wasn’t sure how to give any part of himself. 

He was retreating back behind his mental cowl, eyes far away and anywhere but Reynauld as he sat up, tried to stand, steadied himself, and Dismas said, "I know." Then turned away and said, "I shouldn't have asked. I’m sorry."

And that tore through Reynauld worse than anything else he could have said in that moment. He knew. Dismas knew. He knew it was a fantasy, a shot in the dark, just as much as Reynauld knew that it was wishful thinking he could never act on. His consequence. His body was aching, his heart broken, his mind wanting, but his will was tempered and he tried to defend himself. 

"You wouldn't have even remembered it in the morning," he spoke lowly, still ashamed. Ashamed of what he desired, ashamed of stopping it. Ashamed of the way Dismas shot him a glance, pinning him to the spot with a different kind of fire and making him inert.

"Wouldn't that be for the best?"

There was pain somewhere in that voice -- Reynauld knew the other man well enough to pick up on it -- but mostly it was hardened to steel. Deflective, grit to an edge that he held to Reynauld's throat when they first met over the Help Wanted poster in the form of a loaded gun, when Reynauld caught him with the brothel worker and he denounced Reynauld with a snarl, when Dismas felt defensive and wound tight like a cornered viper. It was an edge laced with venom, dripped with acid, and it made Reynauld wince painfully that he bore it now. 

But he was honest, just for a moment, and the truth slipped through the cracks in his Light-constrained discipline, surprising both himself and Dismas.

" _ No _ ."

It was a simple word but it spoke lengths, hinted at an abyss of depth somewhere within Reynauld and Dismas seemed acutely aware of it. If anything, that only steeled him further, eyes lost and hurt and searching for what Reynauld wouldn't give him,  _ couldn't _ , and he reached out for a moment, as if to help Reynauld to his feet, then withdrew. Turned entirely, body stiff and rigid and unbalanced and unwelcoming of anything Reynauld could do to help. 

" _ Fuck, _ " he heard the other man breathe, frustration either at himself or Reynauld or both. 

The storm slammed and howled, frenzied just beyond the walls, and they both knew what came next. He watched Dismas' shoulders slump in defeat, and he wanted to  _ just  _ \-- it wasn't his place, whatever Reynauld wanted to do to comfort him.  _ Fine _ . That was fine, and he figured things would be back to normal in the morning, night forgotten in the wake of their hangovers.

They just had to survive the night first. 

Reynauld cleared his throat, then stood up as well and said, "I'm going to be just outside." His voice was hoarse and unfamiliar, but he continued, "If you need anything."

Dismas nodded, but didn't respond, back still curved with the weight of the night. Reynauld considered reaching out to squeeze his shoulder as he left, but thought better of it and just said, "I won't let anything happen to you, Dismas."

Then left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) I've been dying to write them all playing strip poker forever now and b) this was such a meaningful chapter to me. It had a real impact on me, and I hope it did for you all, too.
> 
> Please let me know what you thought. :') Now that my focus is back on these two, I'm dying for some feedback. Love you all.


	22. Conviction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an emotional hurdle for me. I was planning to split this into two chapters, due to its length and _content_ , but I think it flows better all as one. 
> 
> As well as this can flow, anyway.

  1. **Conviction**



Reynauld wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he left the room and took a seat on the floor facing Dismas’ door, bubbling with unspent energy. Had mere minutes passed?  _ Hours?  _ The feelings of anxiety churning his thoughts into a patchwork of confusion were just as foreign to Reynauld as the feeling of Dismas’ fingers still trailing down his skin like branding irons.

Absently, body still wound uncomfortably tight from their overly-familiar touch, Reynauld ran his own fingertips along the burning paths of sensation left by the Highwayman, scalding him, filling him with an aching despair that left him trembling at what almost transpired. 

At what a large part of him still secretly yearned for.

The rational part of Reynauld’s mind wondered if he could fix this, if he could open the door and make things right, explain to Dismas that he had been mistaken to allow their comforts to extend this far. Perhaps he could insist that the other man deserved better than Reynauld’s many slips of decorum, because that was the ugly truth of the matter. And yet, the baser part of the Crusader’s mind wondered if he could touch Dismas the way the Highwayman had touched  _ him,  _ all sin and temptation and something deeper, warmer. Something that crinkled the corners of Dismas’ eyes, that held Reynauld’s gaze for a moment too long to be just companionable --

Something that had dissolved into vulnerable hurt, then turned sharp with that anger Dismas previously held Reynauld at arm’s length with, months ago now. 

" _ You wouldn't have even remembered it in the morning _ ," Reynauld had said, gutted, shamed even further by Dismas’ biting response that seared feelings of pain and frustration beyond what Reynauld was capable of dealing with right now. His mind simmered at that, recoiled from the idea that perhaps Dismas would prefer things that way -- another regret to later find redemption for. 

_ "Wouldn't that be for the best?"  _ Dismas’ words had been like clipped iron, barring the emotions that threatened to seep out from around the edges, his voice a jagged tool made to deliver dimensions of the truth.

It was all Reynauld could do but be honest in return:  _ “No.” _

After Reynauld had royally screwed things up between them, sleep came slowly, mind churning the events of the night and replaying different outcomes, as if arranging a forward strategy on the battlefield to recover from a grave, crippling loss. 

Amid his turmoil, there was a sudden  _ rattle  _ within the room and Reynauld was alert immediately. His plan this time was to stop Dismas at the door, to keep him from leaving the tavern entirely and to hopefully wait out the spell of the ocean -- of the  _ Siren  _ \-- in the sanctity of Dismas’ own room. It seemed a simple enough plan of action and Reynauld waited at the door, poised and ready, listening to the faint commotion just beyond the hallway until it ceased. 

But nothing happened.

Dismas didn’t claw at the door, possessed and love-stricken, didn’t come barreling into Reynauld to try and worm past him, didn’t make any further noises after a long minute. Confused, worried, Reynauld called out to him, waited another moment, then opened the door when there was no response. Perhaps he had gotten ahead of himself, perhaps he had misjudged the noises and would find Dismas still drunkenly passed out within, shirtless and pantless --

But no. 

The room was empty.

And the window was open, the shutters creaking in the wind uselessly, the lock nearly torn off its hinges.

Reynauld ran to it, heart jumpstarting him to action when he realized exactly how the Siren snuck away with Dismas this time. He cursed himself, cursed the beguiling wench, cursed the Highwayman who was too wily and acrobatic for his own good.

Not far from the window was an old trellis that led down to the cobblestone street below, and Reynauld could see where Dismas had splintered it from his escape. Thoughtless, Reynauld jumped to it as well, bare hands slippery in the rain-slicked handholds but managed to catch most of his momentum. He still fell, weight too heavy for the wood and it caved to him, tossing him down the side of the building roughly. Reynauld barely kept himself from plummeting the two stories down, grasping at the wood and feeling splinters catch his skin and tunic, but slowing himself enough to land on his feet in a crouch. 

“ _ Light guide me to him _ ,” he whispered into the dark, cold rain pelting him and soaking his clothes. 

He ran in the direction he knew Dismas could be found, where the thunderheads boiled and called to him; it didn’t take long for him to find his footprints in the mud, not in the direction of the cove, but turned sharpy instead. Perhaps to throw Reynauld off? Was the beguiling Siren capable of such a thing?

Unshaken, Reynauld followed those prints until he caught sight of Dismas’ bare form in the distance, illuminated by each lightning strike, still down to just his undershorts, off-kilter and sloppy in his stride. Finally, it clicked where Dismas was stumbling towards.

The cliffs that led down to the breaking waves, harsh and rolling violently, were just beyond their view.

Fear drove him on then, hastened him through the mud. Reynauld didn’t call out to him, too worried it would quicken the smaller man’s pace who already had a good head start. All Reynauld could think was Dismas, grumpy and scowling, Dismas, quick and agile, Dismas, soft and vulnerable -- and again Reynauld ran hard, closed the distance, lungs pumping and rain freezing against his skin. His white tunic was drenched and stuck to his body, and his legs burned from his race across town, already aching from his position on the floor for the past few hours.

But he ran, a mad dash not unlike in the last storm, ran until he could reach out, ran until he encircled Dismas’ wrist, until he drew him back around to face him.

“ _ Dismas _ \-- ”

Something flashed and Reynauld reacted, instincts moving him back just in time as a knife slit his cheek and seared his face red. Dismas turned in his grasp, looking wild and fraught, the newly crafted dirk in his free hand that he angled and lunged with once more. 

Reynauld dodged again, stepped back and bent away, but risked Dismas wrenching free of his wet grasp so he couldn’t move far enough and felt the sting of the knife tip sear deep into his shoulder. He saw the red seep into his tunic, already plastered to his chest from the rain, and grimaced at the blooming pain. He struggled to move them back, away from the crest of the cliff, and used his greater weight as leverage to swing them around so he didn’t jeopardize the other man if Dismas fell past his grip and out over the side. Reynauld hadn’t realized how close they had come, how close he had let Dismas be coaxed to the edge until he saw it at their feet, crumbling and beckoning, and his carelessness embittered him with a righteous fury.

“Why!” Dismas shouted over the wind and the rain, less a question than a demand. “Why won’t you let me go!”

It was jarring, hearing some other entity speak for Dismas. It was his drawn mouth grit back in misery, his distraught voice that begged for abandonment, but those weren’t his words, Reynauld knew. Not from the man who had just redeemed him, who had understood and forgiven his sins, then created and stoked fresh sins beneath his very skin that still burned from his touch.

His shoulder ached as it wept blood, his cheek stung from the wound and the icy rain pelting it. But Reynauld held firm, jaw set and eyes angry.

“You won’t have him, Siren! Not while I still breathe!”

At that, Dismas was drawing back again, knife hand raised and ready to strike, ready to plunge, ready to find whatever means necessary to throw himself or even them both off the edge and into the waves below. Reynauld lifted his arm, hoping to block his face at least, but the blow never came.

A bright light blinded him instead, blinded them both, and suddenly Dismas dropped the knife and fell limp. Reynauld was quick to catch him, stumbling back towards the cliff, but knelt the stunned man down against the ground lest he lose his footing and sent them both over to the Siren’s greedy grasp. When Reynauld looked up, he saw a figure approaching in the dark, large mace glinting with each lightning strike.

_ Junia _ .

“Thank the holy Flame you’re here,” Reynauld gasped, face and shoulder still stung with pain as they bled freely. That new knife Dismas paid for had been powerful and deadly, and Reynauld kicked it away from them to be safe -- but he hadn’t needed to, as Dismas was all but dead weight in his arms from Junia’s dazzling light.

The small Vestal came close enough to examine them both, garbed in a thick nightgown and timber hair wild and wet, stuck to her face in messy strands without her normal head wrap. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of Reynauld’s rain-washed wounds, still seeping bright red against his jaw and tunic. He barely felt them any longer, pain muted and throbbing, too numbed from the cold and the adrenaline still coursing through his veins at their violent struggle, short lived as it had been.

“Sir Reynauld! You’re bleeding!” she breathed, hands fluttering to his crimson chest glinted with gore in the dark.

He didn’t have the energy to shrug her off or console her, suddenly very exhausted from the night, the frantic sprint through mud and cobblestone streets, the emotional rollercoaster that was Dismas possessed and otherwise. The pale holy Light from her hand washed over him, soothing and sedating, making him close his eyes in appreciation of her gentle prayer.

“Thank you, Junia,” he mumbled distantly, shaking his head of the fog within. He saw her checking Dismas for wounds, all clinical in the face of his near nudity compared to when they were playing strip poker mere hours ago. He appreciated her more than he could say right now.

When he felt the strength return to him, Reynauld gathered Dismas in his arms, grip slotted firmly beneath his back and in the crook of his knees, and gradually stood up. The man was slightly heavier than when Reynauld first carried him to the clinic, then again through the ruins after their fight with the Necromancer -- Dismas looked healthier, too, Light be good -- but his aching back and legs groaned with the weight.

Their trek back was slow going, with Junia leading them by way of her holy Light to help with Reynauld’s bare feet blindly slipping on the wet stones, and the wind whipped at them spitefully, clawing at Reynauld’s tunic and musing Dismas’ wet hair. 

Reynauld bared his teeth at it, at the storm that thundered around them, feeling the boiling anger steeping him with hate. Hate for this Siren and hate for the Eldritch masses.

“Does this mean they’ve failed?” Junia called out behind her, and spoke the dreaded words Reynauld had stamped down in his mind, disturbing and lingering. He didn't want to consider what would happen if William and Alhazred and the others couldn't best the Eldritch Siren, the ocean-succubus that held Dismas wrapped around her finger whenever a storm rocked the Hamlet. Unfortunately, he couldn't ignore it any longer, the dread made real by the haunting sting in his cheek and chest and only hoped that the four men would make it back in one piece. 

To Junia, he answered, voice grave, "Just prepare yourself, Sister. I see the Light calling upon us very soon."

… 

By the time Reynauld made it back to the tavern, the storm had settled yet again to a damp drizzle, soft on his shoulders that were faintly bowed over to block Dismas from the icy rain. He could feel the smaller man shivering in his arms, thin brows drawn tight in some nightmare. Junia had handed him the Highwayman’s knife before he left her at the abbey, thanking her for her readiness and protection as he walked off.

Dismas needed warmth, a bed, and sleep. A lot of it, but Reynauld knew that wouldn’t be possible until the she-devil Siren was slain and dead in the water. It filled him with a hollow  _ knowing _ , a merciless conviction of what he’d have to do next. 

It was a strange feeling, a confidence of what his next move was -- what his  _ only  _ move was, as far as Reynauld was concerned -- that left no room for doubt or hesitance in his mind. It was the exact same unshakable resolve that had carried him through the crusades, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. There were too many moments in Reynauld’s life that filled him with uncertainty and indecision, and so many involved the agonized man in his arms that it was now a steady comfort to so instinctively know his next move. It sturdied him, step after step as they ascended the stairs. 

Whatever pain Reynauld still felt from his closed wounds, whatever ache and fatigue his arms and legs shook with melted away at the flame of his conviction, dangerous in how it hollowed him out of all other senses. All other thoughts and desires. He walked up to his own door and shifted the trembling Highwayman until he could open it, then stepped within. 

_ Born of rage and destined to triumph,  _ he prayed -- he swore -- to the Light and to Dismas.  _ I judge thee damned, Siren. Any and all who stand in my way will be crushed by my holy justice. _

Gently, more delicate than he felt in the moment, Reynauld laid Dismas down in his bed, made neat and tidy this morning, then unfolded a blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it over his bare form. Dismas’ shivering didn’t stop immediately, but the knit of his brows softened and Reynauld could barely feel the small tinge of pleasure at that, so swept away that he was in his murderous intent. If the expedition with William, Alhazred, Jingles and Barristan had failed, then Reynauld would lead the next one and see to the Siren wench’s death himself.

For Dismas’ sake.

For his  _ own  _ sake.

He left Dismas’ side and barred his window, then took his place seated at the door and facing the bed for some much needed sleep. Having lived and breathed the militant life for nearly a decade, Reynauld was used to being able to find rest in whatever position, whatever mindset possible -- before the temptation that is Dismas, anyway -- and Reynauld was grateful for a life of discipline as he crossed his legs and bowed his back. He would be sore upon waking, he knew, but that was of little attrition for ensuring Dismas’ safety; this way, if the Highwayman tried to leave by way of the window or door, Reynauld would know immediately. 

No more careless mistakes, he resolved himself -- Reynauld would not allow the Siren to take Dismas from again.

The last thing he saw as he faded to sleep was Dismas’ prone form, laid out bare beneath Reynauld’s blankets, too vulnerable and too afflicted for how the Crusader might have wanted him within his sheets earlier tonight.

His wishful thinking lulled him to a fitful sleep, wrought with both pain and pleasure.

…

A sound awoke him. Movement. Footsteps.

He was on guard immediately, alerted upright and hand at his… 

Reynauld didn’t have a sword equipped, didn’t even have shoes, vambraces, nor a belt. Nothing at his disposal, and he felt foolish and vulnerable in the fragments of his furor. The threat that approached his bleary eyes faded to Dismas, all tan skin and hard lines and wide eyes, and Reynauld’s brain was slow to understand. Dismas was in his room, almost naked, walking towards him, crouching down to reach out…

His rough hand grazed his cheek and Reynauld froze at the touch, the trials of the night slamming into him full force. 

Dismas drunk and amorous, Dismas frustrated and hurt, Dismas lost and possessed. It all came back to him at once and Reynauld flinched at the contact, at the brush of fingertips, familiar and rousing, dancing along his cheek with hesitance. 

The other man was gentle, so gentle and tender and shaken, as he traced along the new mark on Reynauld’s face, scarred that it was. The wound was still sensitive, still throbbing and raw despite being closed with Junia’s sacred healing some hours earlier, and Reynauld relished the touch. He closed his eyes again, mind awake but groggy and dimmed with the remnants of a poor night’s sleep. Those fingertips, those same digits that teased fire into his veins earlier and made Reynauld ache with desperate, sinful  _ want _ , they trailed from his cheek to the corner of his mouth, then intersected where the fresh lesion throbbed in the form of an uneven cross.

Ashamed, Reynauld’s breath hitched, lost in that touch that enticed something kind and merciful, something warm and affectionate, to his very core. Dismas must have gotten the wrong idea, so ready that he was for punishment and hate and self-loathing, and his hand retracted as if he’d been burned.

“I did this.”

His voice was racked with pain, as if he couldn’t believe the very words he spoke, and Reynauld’s eyes opened to the sight of… anguish. Dismas was stricken with grief for just a moment, taking in the sight of Reynauld drenched in blood from collar to hem, then visibly settled to detachment as he moved to distance the two of them. Reynauld wouldn’t let him, not yet, and lashed out like a whip, thoughtless, acting on instinct and catching Dismas’ wrist in his hand once more. Familiar, rehearsed, trial and error. Only this time, Dismas didn’t fight him, didn’t tug and yank for a freedom that he didn’t want, didn’t snarl his teeth and demand some Eldritch monstrosity to take him -- something Reynauld would never allow.

Instead, Dismas froze, pliant and lost, and let Reynauld guide his hand back to his new throbbing scar on his cheek weaved with his old one. Reynauld moved those long fingers tipped with short crescent nails, raking his skin gently, until Dismas’ palm was flat against the pain, then Reynauld settled into it, into the soothing warmth that he had been bereft of all night. It centered him, filled his hollow bones that had been nothing but anger and hate at the night’s events, and Reynauld closed his eyes once more.

Reynauld wanted to tell him that it wasn’t as bad as it looked, or that the pain was barely but a memory, or that he didn’t care. But he had promised long ago not to lie to this man, so coiled tight with the pain of past and present trauma that Reynauld knew so intimately, so he said the only honest thing he could think of in that soft moment.

“No, you didn’t.”

He heard Dismas -- choke, it sounded like -- a scoff or a sob, maybe -- Reynauld wasn’t sure. He didn’t open his eyes, he barely breathed, as they stayed like that for what felt like minutes, Dismas’ wide, warm palm pressed to Reynauld’s pain and for just a moment, Reynauld lost himself. Lost himself to what could have been, to what  _ would  _ have been if he felt he might have deserved it the night prior. 

Through his palm, Reynauld could feel Dismas’ pulse racing, erratic and frantic, and Reynauld smiled into it.

They stayed like that for a long minute, and tentatively, unsure, Dismas stroked his face with his thumb. Voice grave and resolved, steadier than the thrum of his heartbeat pressed to Reynauld’s cheek, Dismas finally cleared his throat and said, “There’s something I need to do.”

…

The sun was rising. 

It wasn’t unusual for Reynauld to glimpse the growing light, starting from the horizon and blooming pinks and oranges into the sky as the sun peeked from behind the nightfall. He loved it, once, before it became routine. He loved it with someone else, decades past, day feeling as fresh and new as his life as an adult, far from the painful reaches of his father’s influence and his own self-loathing. 

Now, though, it was nothing special, nothing more than the signal for him to dress and head to the abbey. 

Or so he had thought before he saw the way Dismas stared at it, the way  _ she  _ might have, once. So long ago. Reynauld barely paid the swelling dawn any mind, though, too focused on Dismas’ wide-eyed wonderment, hopeful almost. The storm had settled the clouds back to the sea, just soft tufts of white and grey where the water touched the tri-colored sky, and a gentle warmth bathed the two of them with the pull of the sun. It was a refreshing, much needed contrast to the harsh chill of the night and rain and terror, and Reynauld watched the goosebumps run along Dismas’ neck and chest.

The smaller man had put on clothes, his boots, and his fur-lined coat before grabbing the conch shell from his desk and heading out the door, Reynauld hot on his heels. He didn’t question the Highwayman, didn’t speak as they made their way back to the cliffside where Reynauld had wrestled with him again hours prior.

There were scuff marks in the mud still, and if Reynauld had scattered his blood to the earth, then the rain had already washed away any trace of it. Dismas hadn’t asked what happened between them, on the cliff or before; if he remembered the heated moments that passed between them, if he had any inkling of how close Reynauld had been to losing himself from the Light and more, then he gave no indication. Instead, he bit his lip nervously while watching the first spark of daylight bleed into the dark shades of the night, fading from a faint blue to a gentle pink to a subdued yellow, all soft tones and soothing lights. It was in stark contrast of their night together, hot and alive with too many passions, one moment from the next.

Reynauld saw the innocent awe lower to something darker, something ashamed as his rich, brandy eyes flicked up to his, then away. He watched Dismas’ hands clench around the strange shell, large and glimmering and Eldritch, watched him grit and steady himself in the face of the new day… 

…Then flung the conch out over the cliffside.

The two men regarded the shell as it tumbled out into nothing, as Dismas might have the hours ago, watched it fall into empty space that led only to the crashing waves, thrumming with an energy that felt alive far below them. It seemed slowed, almost, the conch shell paused beneath their forceful stares until eventually, with finality, the ugly thing splashed into the ocean’s pull and was gone to the tide. Gone, like a two-week nightmare that they might finally awake from.

Dismas turned, then, turned and looked at Reynauld, so exhausted but with something vulnerable lining his eyes that glinted up at his in the sunrise. Like he wanted… affirmation, reassurance, relief perhaps, confidence when he had none for himself at his alien actions.

“I’m sorry,” Dismas spoke with a glance to Reynauld’s white and red-stained tunic and Reynauld was dumbstruck by how raw the Highwayman sounded, felt both rooted and anchorless, bereft of words and nearly reached out to hold Dismas to comfort him. Three times now,  _ three times _ he had nearly lost this man entirely to something so far beyond them both that they didn’t know how to counter it, how to stop it. 

Reynauld knew how to stop it now.

And he  _ would _ .

The church bells were ringing in the distance, most likely from the abbot or the sisters of the abbey, signifying the expedition’s return, and they both stiffened at the sound. It was finality embodied in a single noise, a warning as to what dark future awaited them both, and whatever it promised, Reynauld was ready for it. Eventually, they stepped away from one another, eyes anywhere else, hands open and closing, and turned to the source of the bells that still rang with unease. Clearly, the others hadn’t been successful in killing the Siren -- Reynauld only hoped that all four of them were at the bridge, exhausted but blessedly  _ alive.  _

…

Reynauld’s heart was in his throat as he and Dismas made their way to the front of the crowd, all making way for the expedition’s homecoming and parting to the trail of blood left behind in their wake. It bode ill omens, and Reynauld steeled himself with a prayer to the Light for the familiar gore that seemed to plague his life. 

He could handle this, he thought to his convictions; he’d handled worse.

Alhazred headed the line, surprisingly, seemingly the most stable of the four men in mind and body, followed closely by a bloodied Jingles, the dark reds of conflict and carnage lost in the mildewed cloth he wore in lieu of armor. The mocking garb was torn beyond belief, tattered to expose broken reddened skin beneath as he bled freely, his white mask flecked with crimson teardrops to match his motley garments. The bells atop his head rang and jingled in harsh contrast to the deathly silence that hung over the crowd.

Trailing behind, Barristan brought up the rear, wizened body hunched beneath William’s weight as he carried the Houndmaster who was slack against him, arms draped and fingertips seeping more red. Laika was at Barristan’s feet, limping and fur wet with flesh and gore and seaweed. 

It was a gruesome spectacle, grisly and harrowing, made worse when Reynauld approached closely enough to call out, to welcome them home, to comfort them on their retreat and to thank the Eternal Flame that they all managed to return home from their quest.

But when he and Dismas drew closer, Reynauld didn’t miss the way Alhazred avoided their eyes, the way Jingles was silent of his normal jeering barbs, the way Barristan gave Reynauld that too-familiar, somber look, or the way Laika growled at their approach. With a growing pit of dread deep in his gut, Reynauld didn’t miss the way William remained unsettling still when the Crusader called his name and was only given silence in return.

…

Their first death rocked the Hamlet.

Reynauld had known it would be a matter of time, had assumed  _ he  _ would be the first in their too-close call against the Swine King. It should have been an honor to sacrifice all of oneself to the greater good of others, should have been an easy out of a life poorly-lived in exchange for redemption. In exchange for never having to remember the guilt of his sins and resting eternally to the holy Light and beyond. 

If there even  _ was  _ any rest for him. Reynauld wasn’t sure when exactly his dogmatism had splintered, but somehow, the thought of dying was getting harder and harder to accept.

A young woman cried out at William’s burial, sobbing his name to the heavens and rattling the uncanny hush that had blanketed the rest of the town. William was little more than an acquaintance to most, but in his few weeks here, the Houndmaster seemed to have made an impact on many. His righteous devotion to the law and the greater good had conscripted him to saving the Hamlet and had warmed Reynauld to him, along with plenty of others. Laika howled from further away, held in the back lines by Barristan and Bigby who watched on in silence, casting an eeriness among the solemn crowd. 

It was sobering to see a fallen ally, to know it could be any one of them next to die gruesomely in battle, the otherworldly silence as a nauseating reminder of how fleeting peace is in this dark corner of the world that made up the Hamlet. 

The Heir stepped forward a moment later, face grim, shoulders squared, a bleak mixture of regal and haggard stiffness as he cleared his voice and spoke clipped, polite words that Reynauld mostly tuned out. He knew the lad would hold himself responsible, and Reynauld wasn’t sure yet if he disagreed with the notion -- certainly, he wished to direct his ire and despair  _ somewhere _ \-- but the thought quickly fizzled to a haze as the Heir began to sing in low tones:

“A lone man by the seashore, at the end of day, gazes the horizon with seawinds in his face,” the Heir mirrored William’s sailor shanty from that night, what felt like a surreal, distant dream now, filled with laughter and dancing and... 

Reynauld looked to Dismas then, whose liquid umber eyes widened at recognition of the song, though the smaller man remained silent even when others around the ceremony added their voices to the ballad. Barristan with his baritone voice, Boudica with her strange accent, Junia with her soft pitch, the tavern keeper, the guild members.

Laika howled once more at her master’s absence.

“Now his song’s a memory, a ghost in the fog,” the town sang, some louder than others. “He sets the sail one last time, bidding ‘farewell’ to the world.” It was a beautiful sendoff, really, one William certainly would have approved of despite the differing melodies surrounding them -- which merely gave the moment a haunting timbre -- and yet he and Dismas remained quiet through it all, listening and aching. “Anchor to the water, seabed far below, hound still at his side and a smile beneath his brow. 

William must have taught the song to the Heir at some point, who sang it confidently and after a few chords, finally ended the ballad with: “This is for long-forgotten Light at the end of the world. Horizon crying, the fears he left behind long ago.”

It was sickeningly fitting for what had returned to the Hamlet in William’s stead after the cove’s hold on him.

Reynauld was no stranger to death from his time in the Crusades and had seen dozens upon dozens of mutilated bodies, some of his comrades and some of his enemies, but all the same with the Light gone from their eyes. Never in his years of war, however, had Reynauld seen a corpse with bits of skin hardened to jagged edges, sharp to the touch and mottled grey, nor with lips swollen and teeth grown to inhuman points.

William’s final visage had been disturbing, and the remaining heroes held the lawman with a grim reverence as they faced their fate and bid their farewells -- all except for one. 

Jingles was nowhere to be found, having snuck off after a mere few hours at the sanitarium to cure his bleed and mounting insanity, and Reynauld damned the fool for his selfish absence under his breath as the ballad ended and the Heir stepped down for the abbot.

“Don’t judge the man too harshly _ ,  _ Reynauld,” next to him, Alhazred spoke lowly, darkly, as the abbot said a final prayer and put William’s twisted remains to rest. The edge in the scholar’s voice surprised Reynauld -- Jingles had a knack for getting on peoples’ bad sides, almost as if it were some hilarious sport to him, and Alhazred was never far from snapping at the young Jester, either. But his face was grave now, thick brows drawn together as he defended Jingles from Reynauld’s bitter words. “For all his levity,  _ Jingles  _ was the one to make the difficult call when the rest of us didn’t.”

That difficult call had resulted in William’s death, too soon, too bloody. Supposedly it  _ hadn’t  _ been Jingles’ fault, or so the others had claimed in their rushed recounting of the failed expedition. Reynauld hadn’t been there, and even if he had, it sounded like a lost cause regardless; a suicide mission into the unknown with two newcomers. He hated himself for behind, but then thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t and glanced to Dismas.

The Highwayman seemed more shaken than even Barristan and Alhazred by the Houndmaster’s death.

It shattered their idyllic lull of having won out over the wretched Swine King, of feeling a false confidence and empty equilibrium that maybe they stood a chance against these Eldritch horrors. That maybe they were gaining the upper hand, that these nightmarish creatures could be felled, could be beaten, but that hope was snuffed out as quickly as blossoming flame in the face of a long, endless night. Reynauld whispered a bitter prayer, interrupted by the wolfhound crying out again; the pained sound made Dismas flinch and retreat away from the burial wordlessly, and the Crusader watched him leave, his anger mounting.

Reynauld waited until the abbot was finished with his verses, then said a prayer of his own for the fallen man and turned to leave. Alhazred followed him, eyes solemn and mustached mouth in a deep frown, and when they were out of hearing distance, the scholar spoke again:

“The Siren is stronger than even I could have imagined. The aquatic devils of the Cove have remade a poor girl in their image -- most likely the Ancestor’s doing.” Reynauld was quiet as the Occultist spoke, letting his anger fester into storm as they walked to the manor where he would find the Heir. “She is their queen,  _ and  _ their slave.”

“It matters not. She will be dead soon enough,” Reynauld answered, and they fell to near silence for the rest of the way -- he could still hear Laika’s cries in the distance, sharp and mournful and echoing within his hollow bones.

…

The Heir had his head in his hands in the center of the old, rotted study and was quiet for too long, for not long enough, after the Crusader and Occultist entered. Books had been thrown from their years-long slumber on the shelves to rest on the floor, the dust disturbed and dismantled from various nooks and crannies, the skeletal chairs were upturned and forgotten. Whatever rage the Heir had befallen from the death of their comrade, he had bled and void and emptied to a withering sadness sat hunched over on a dirty couch, silent and sullen. 

“He fought well, your Lordship,” Alhazred spoke, and it wasn’t enough. It was kind and elegant and befitting a fallen soldier of Light and law alike, but it wasn’t enough. “He was a good man, and he knew to what end he fought for.”

“ _ No,” _ the Heir grit past the barrier of his hands. “No, he died for  _ nothing _ . I sent him out there, I went  _ William  _ to his death, and he died for naught. Because of  _ my  _ hasty decisions.”

It was grief-stricken, so very hurt and human, and Reynauld detested it. William was an ex-lawman, uncommonly compassionate and devoted to the rigid state of ordinance and legislation. He believed in the public service, in the general interest and the common welfare, compassion being such a rarity in the fevered pitch of battle and greed that it even shocked the Crusader. William’s knowing smile, his words of wisdom, his steadfast belief in a better tomorrow was something Reynauld looked forward to upon his return, something he held precious -- the righteousness of man and his duties.

William didn’t die for  _ nothing _ .

They were silent, though, silent to the Heir’s grief and guilt. The distraught quiet dragged on, respectful, compulsory, in honor of a man who served his first and final expedition for the Hamlet. Perhaps the Heir saw opportunities lost, possibilities for a determined man to take stand now gone, doors shut where once they were open -- but the way his thin hands clenched at his scalp, by the way his head shook back and forth, Reynauld didn’t think so.

“Did he have any next of kin?” the young man groaned to them, to the void.

Reynauld shook his head, at odds with the iron anger like lead in his stomach; William was never a soldier, and Reynauld was a commander no longer. His natural instinct to write a death off as a battle well-fought, a day well-earned, was misplaced and he refused to let it saturate his mourning. They stayed like that for too long, the Heir making notes and righting wrongs and paving roads unsettled by an unexpected death until eventually Reynauld cleared his throat.

“Have you seen  _ Jingles  _ around?” 

The damned clown weighed heavily on his mind, for some reason, absent but not forgotten. No, if anything, Reynauld needed to give the superlicious Jester a piece of his angry, sorrowed, sundered mind before he broke apart, and what better sandbag than the foolhardy Jingles? His bells and cackles made for the best irritant to stoke Reynauld’s anger, perfectly so.

The Heir gestured towards one of the many rooms above their heads, guestroom after guestroom that must have had some kind of purpose at one point, decades ago, but no longer. Instead, they seemed to be the madman’s hiding place.

Silent as the grave, Reynauld turned towards the stairs and made his way up, footfall after heavy footfall like an executioner's axe, all the way to the second landing where the Heir had gestured. He wasn’t sure why he felt such vicious anger for the clown, for the thin, wily man who hung the noose and pulled the latch for the Houndmaster to die upon, especially after Alhazred had been so insistent that Reynauld leave well enough alone.

But he  _ couldn’t _ .

He needed an outlet for his anger and brimstone grief, for weeks of buildup and fear and ache piled on top of one another, so high up in Reynauld’s mind that he could no longer see the peak. He needed somewhere to aim his clenched fists, to turn his vengeful snarl, and Reynauld needed it now.

At the second landing, Reynaud could see immediately which door belonged to the Jester, shut tight and blocked off while the other guest rooms remained open and unused. 

“ _ FOOL _ ,” he bellowed down the hallway. “SHOW YOURSELF, CLOWN.”

As expected, there was no answer. Reynauld stormed up to the closed door, blood boiling and skin crawling with his spite, his anger, his  _ sadness _ , and didn’t bother knocking. He grasped the knob with a firm first and hauled it inwards, shoving past the meager lock and splintering the wood at the latch as he threw it open and --

And then he stopped. 

There were bells, a flash of red, and he was thrown back into the wall of the hallway just outside the door. The thin weight against him belied its momentum, its sickle, its  _ fury,  _ and rust brown eyes flashed up at him like a knife of their own. Jingles was still as death, curved blade against Reynauld’s throat, and when either of them finally breathed, it disturbed the bells atop Jingles’ head with the pure force of it. Neither of them moved otherwise, just heaved in anger and barely restrained violence. 

“You called?” came the sneering voice beneath the soiled white mask.

“You  _ coward _ ,” Reynauld all but spit back, shaken from his shock and so lost that he was in his own rage that he didn’t mind the bite of sharpened steel at his neck. “You condemn a good man to his  _ death  _ and then hide in your room?”

Jingles grinned madly through his mask, outlined in white and red, piercing Reynauld’s skin with the sickle’s edge like a warning, and said, “Wanna see me do it  _ again _ ?”

They were stilled at that, one awaiting another, a game of wit and lunacy. Reynauld didn’t have the patience for it, the mind to play this Jester’s wicked chess and be an end to his Lightless jokes. He didn’t fear the hand of a craven, so ready that the young Jester had been to kill a better man and then to hide his shame behind closed doors -- the thought alone soured Reynauld’s mouth to an odious frown.

“Then  _ do it _ . Kill me and show your worth, coward.”

He saw the cracks in Jingles’ facade, the way his grin pulled too harsh beneath the mask, the way his brow-lines turned up for just a moment, a split second of vulnerability, and a sudden fist came up to collide with Reynauld’s jaw. He reacted, all boiling fury, and threw his own fist back against solid skin, then received a hard wall of knuckles in return. They weren’t fighting, not really, none of the life or death prowess that came from worse creatures present in their swinging fists, none of the bite but all of the  _ pain  _ as their fists hammered back and forth like bricks. Unforgiving and unashamed.

It felt surprisingly  _ good _ .

Reynauld felt his nose bloody, saw the split in Jingles’ mask at his temple run red, heard their mingled breaths mix in the hallway, all animalistic rage at each other, at the way of things in the Hamlet. So many others, Dismas included, had treated Reynauld as if he were something fragile since his battle against the Swine King, since his recovery from malaria, that it was nice to have someone unafraid of actually  _ hurting  _ him.

The Jester swung low against his stomach and winded him, too unsteady that the holy man still was, and Reynauld doubled over, scrap finished; there was no victory to be had for either of them here, not in this.

Jingles was unsteady as he turned and walked back to his room, but he left it open -- not that he could lock it again after Reynauld had smashed the mechanism inwards -- but after wheezing a breath back into his lungs, the Crusader took it as an invitation. Or at the very least, more than a  _ dismissal _ . He pushed into the small guest room on adrenaline-wired legs and watched through narrowed eyes as Jingles shakily poured himself a glass of dark liquid; he very pointedly didn’t offer any to Reynauld, and that was more than fine with him. The burn of liquor was far too profane, too casual, for what Reynauld could stomach at the moment. 

“If you’ve come to pass your holy judgment, the least you could do is pay for a new door first,” Jingles sighed as he plopped into an old, moth eaten armchair, flippant as always. 

Undeterred, Reynauld grit his jaw at the clown’s petulance, then ground out, “I’ve come to demand why you killed William.” It sounded so plain, so insignificant and so  _ final  _ when he spoke the words aloud, that he almost wished he hadn’t come at all. But at their first death, and a death at the hand of one of their own no less, Reynauld only had straws of decorum to grasp at.

A laugh returned the Crusader’s temper as Jingles rolled up his mask, just enough to expose his scarred mouth, just enough for him to throw back the shot of liquor, before he yanked it back down and cackled through it.

“You Light-lovers and your fucking  _ absolutes, _ ” Jingles hissed once his laughter left him sobered enough to strike back with vehemence. His thin fingers were clenched around the empty glass and his burnished eyes were narrowed to daggers as they met Reynauld’s without hesitance. “Always thinking you can eat your holy cake and have it, too. It must be so easy, seeing the world in black and white, to ignore whatever might contradict your self-summoned arrogance. You righteous zealots and nobles are all the same in that regard, with your easy fucking  _ duality _ .”

Reynauld didn’t deny it. He knew there were faults in his devotion, faults in the scriptures themselves, that boiled the world down to a morality that, at times, contradicted itself. But all he could do was square his shoulders, swallow the trickle of blood down his throat, and ask again.

“Why did you kill one of our own?”

For a moment, he thought Jingles might throw the glass at him, all bubbling energy that the clown was, but instead he just sighed heavily and sat back. “It’s not like he gave me a  _ choice  _ in the matter.”

A long silence stretched between them then, and Reynauld ground any impatience he felt between his teeth to keep his tongue in place, waiting for the Jester to elaborate. “The Siren, she -- she  _ took  _ the lawman, somehow. She screeched some haunting song and he was gone, dragged to her command. He turned on us, he even turned on his damned  _ mutt. _ ” Jingles shivered then, lost in some recountance, and tucked his head down; the bells rang softly at the movement, a sharp contrast to the mood that suffocated them. 

The memory of Laika limping back through the Hamlet, whimpering, a parade of gore and grief, flashed before Reynauld’s mind. Had that been William’s doing? He rejected the idea.

“Then why didn’t you immediately  _ retreat _ ?”

It was shameful, stressful, the thought of turning one’s back on the enemy to flee, and the words were vile at Reynauld’s tongue, but any good leader knew when the odds were too great against them. He had trusted Barristan to have better judgment than that, than to risk any one of them for -- for  _ nothing _ . For wasted time, wasted supplies, wasted  _ life _ . Perhaps the Heir had been right and this had all been for naught.

“We  _ couldn’t _ ,” Jingles snapped, as if it were the most obvious thing. “We were surrounded, and if we  _ had  _ \-- ” He stopped, glared at Reynauld, glared at the ground, glared at everything around them, his leg jumping anxiously and bells rattling with each movement. “The lawman would’ve been lost regardless, and perhaps even the rest of us with him.”

A long pause, broken by more bells and an angry huff from the clown. “Al tried to grab him with that tentacle magic he summons, and the big armored oaf tried to forcibly drag him from the frey.” More angry, anxious noises, more ringing. Reynauld was honestly taken aback by Jingles’ mindless movements, his boiling nerves -- he had assumed the younger man to be shameless and guiltless by his absence in the face of his consequences. By the way he flinched at the Crusader’s slow step forward, he had assumed wrong. 

“And  _ me  _ \-- ” Jingles paused, laughed a broken, jarring noise, then held up a hand, the limb covered wrist to shoulder in bloody bandages already seeped through with a dark stain. “I got the  _ hound’s share _ of blood for my troubles.”

An eerie silence befell them as Reynauld digested the information. He didn’t like to think a good, lawful and righteous man such as William, lost to the void and madness of his mind, of the  _ Siren _ , turned on his partners and was slaughtered like some wretched swinefolk. He tried not to think about what might have happened had Reynauld been there, how things might have ended differently if he had just  _ been there _ . Looking at the bits of flesh missing from the Jester’s arms, shoulders, leg, Reynauld gravely accepted that he probably hadn’t had any hope of saving the Houndmaster, either. Not with Laika tearing into any who had gotten close enough to do a damn thing to save William.

“Jingles -- ”

“ _ No! _ ” The knife was drawn again, at a distance this time but with that same, wild intent lined in the Jester’s stained mask. “That name is a joke from the grave and I’ll not be mocked with it any more.” 

Reynauld was taken aback, eyes flicking from the knife to the madman who wielded it; he had never seen the other man so humorless, so  _ serious _ , and over something as ridiculous as a frivolous name. When he had first met the man, the Heir had answered for him as to his namesake and it had never seemed to be an issue until now -- not one apparent to the Crusader, anyway.

“I thought you favored the term.”

A cruel laugh echoed between them once more, clipped and empty of anything but derision that only deepened the sneer in the thin face. “To think I actually  _ enjoyed  _ being called such things makes  _ you _ , Crusader, one of the biggest jokes I’ve ever known. And I’m the comedic connoisseur around here, so you have that on good authority. I’m humbled to know such a farce of a man,  _ messire _ .” He emphasized the sarcastic honorific with a jab of the blade in Reynauld’s vicinity, and the Crusader bit his tongue of any scathing remark in return. 

“Then what  _ is  _ your name, clown?” Reynauld asked slowly, eyes back on the weapon.

“Heh. You lumbering louts finally think to ask?” scoffed the smaller man, still coiled on the edge of his seat, knife hand raised. “It’s Sarmenti. Not ‘ _ Jingles’,  _ not ‘ _ clown’  _ or ‘ _ fool’ _ . Those who once called me such are long since dead, and I’ll have you gutted like a Lord if that so-called brain of yours forgets.” 

After a long moment of tense silence and narrowed eyes, Reynauld finally nodded and Jingles --  _ Sarmenti  _ \-- lowered his knife. Reynauld wasn’t afraid of the wiry Jester, and hardly held a shred of respect for him, but he recognized that look in his eye, the tone of his voice, the too-tight grip on the knife and liquor glass. He saw a man pushed to his limits, bereft of sanity and logic and anything else that might tether Sarmenti to steadier grounds -- and reluctantly, Reynauld relinquished his anger.

“ _ Sarmenti _ , then,” Reynauld worked out the unfamiliar name, unsure of why he bothered to remember it at all, and crossed his arms over his still-bloody tunic; whatever the Jester’s true name, it changed nothing between them. “What else can you tell me about the cove?”

He snorted before he answered, then shivered at the apparent memory. “It’s an underwater nightmare. I had thought the pig-fuckers to be nauseating enough, but the horrors within the cove -- ” Sarmenti broke off, fiddled with his blade, eyes faraway. “The walls crawl with sea-maggots, water-logged corpses explode when you get too near, and the fish-folk… They stare at you with their gaping mouths and their far-set eyes that rarely blink as they bleed you with their salt-rotted blades. Your houndmaster friend found himself on the wrong end of one of those foul sea-beasts, naked and scaled, and the wound festered quickly before our eyes. Then the Siren -- ”

The words cracked his mouth in two once more and Sarmenti started to laugh then, broken and jarring, and he put the shot glass down to clutch his face instead. 

In his madness, Sarmenti’s bells rang around him, unsettling, adding to the deranged chill as he finally managed to gasp and said, “That engorged sea witch would have killed us all with our own teammate if I hadn't  _ cut _ our losses." His words fell apart to his crazed laughter as he fought to compose himself, and Reynauld glared through the man's lunacy: whether it was the liquor or the stress of the expedition, the Crusader didn’t know and didn’t care. "We had to kill her precious prize before she allowed us to flee. And that  _ damned mutt _ wouldn't budge until Barristan grabbed the lawman's empty body to drag back here. And for what? A worthless song? A pitiful  _ prayer? _ A joke! And they call  _ me  _ the ‘fool’."

It took a moment for the Jester to regain his mind, but the moment he did, he reached for the half-full liquor bottle and yanked the mask up enough to drink directly from the fount. Reynauld took the reprieve to examine the man’s scarred face -- what little there was of it exposed -- and the numerous bite marks covering his body with wet-slicked gore. One in particular seeped into his motley garb freely, slicking his skinny arm, and seemed to pain the other man when he slammed the bottle back on the table. 

With a sigh, Reynauld took a step closer, closer to the bleeding man and his drawn knife who, on impulse, raised it threateningly at his approach. His mind was gone, clearly, and Reynauld was slow with his movements as he reached out and placed his hand on Sarmenti’s arm, the blood and the sinew hot beneath his touch, and spoke the holy words that let him heal torn flesh. 

The wound was too large to close altogether, too dire for the limits of his Light to fully repair, but his wary hate widened to shock as the Light washed over the Jester’s weeping arm.

When he was finished, Sarmenti pulled his arm away and flexed his skinny forearm experimentally, then peered up at Reynauld with his dubious eyes. “Thank you for telling me what happened. I anticipate I’ll be facing her before long,” Reynauld ignored the obvious contention between them slowly slipping to a fragile tolerance, possessing nowhere near enough patience to answer the Jester’s unspoken questions.

Sarmenti huffed a laugh at that, still examining his now-minor injury, and said, “Then you will be as lost to her as William.” 

Reynauld smiled then, only it wasn’t a smile at all. It was dark, foreboding, exhausted and tainted with that familiar bloodlust that pulsed his heart quicker and steadied his hands with resolve. With  _ conviction _ . He knew his next step, made clear through his anger and frustration, and it was a bracing clarity as simple and clean as breathing. 

“I will crush her forces into the tide and see the ocean painted red with her demise.”

…

Not long after, as Reynauld was descending the steps of the manor after bidding the Heir and Alhazred farewell, a strange sight caught his attention -- Junia, in her holy robes and blessed plate, was running in his direction. 

On instinct, Reynauld ran to meet her, then steadied the small Vestal as she struggled to catch her breath and gasped out, “Sir Reynauld…! Dismas is… the Old Road… He tried -- ”

Reynauld didn’t wait for her to finish. 

As soon as the meaning clicked in his head of the Highwayman’s intent, Reynauld released Junia’s shoulders and ran, not unlike when Dismas meant to throw himself to the ocean, not unlike when Dismas meant to sacrifice himself to the Necromancer. He ran until the pounding of his heart was in his ears, spurring him on, a much-needed outlet for Reynauld’s churning emotions. The muscles in his legs ached with another mad dash, down the cobblestones, through the vendors, past the civilians, until finally,  _ blessedly _ , the bridge to the Old Road was in sight.

Standing atop the weathered stones of the bridge were two figures, locked in a struggle, glaring at one another, stubborn and determined in equal measure;  _ Audrey _ , of all people, held Dismas by the scruff of his fur jacket in one hand, knife at his throat in the other. Likewise, the scowling Highwayman held his own dirk -- freshly washed of Reynauld’s blood, it appeared -- at Audrey’s pale throat as they stared each other down.

It was clear the moment Dismas caught sight of Reynauld, tunic still bloody, sweat trickling down his neck, face surely as distraught as the Crusader felt by the way Dismas couldn’t meet his eyes entirely. 

“What’s going on?”

The simple question had the two rogues glaring at each other again, only for Dismas to shake Audrey off forcefully and say, “This cur seemed to grow a moral compass overnight.”

Audrey huffed an irritated laugh at that, short and clipped compared to her normal buoyant amusement, and crossed her arms, flicked her hair back, cocked her hip propped to one side, then sneered, “And this old dog thought he could slip away silently before William was yet cold in the ground.”

Reynauld felt a strange agony at that, as if the world was suddenly yanked beneath his feet and left him dizzy, disoriented, empty of air in his clenched lungs. His focus immediately flashed to Dismas, who was very obviously trying to avoid any and all eye contact with the Crusader, shame or embarrassment or otherwise at being caught coloring his exposed cheeks. It only cut Reynauld deeper, who normally  _ savored  _ that wondrous flush of vulnerability on Dismas’ face with a reverence of a star-struck lover, now bereft.

“...Dismas?”

He hated how harrowed his own voice sounded to his ears, hated the way Dismas flinched at it.

“Seemed better to leave,” was all Dismas could manage, shoulder twitching with a simple shrug, eyes still anywhere other than Reynauld who took a step closer, afraid the smaller man might bolt if Reynauld reached for him. 

The Grave Robber, blessedly, seemed to read the situation well enough and inched backwards, apparently more confident that Reynauld could manage the Highwayman’s turmoil more than even Reynauld was. After everything that had transpired… Reynauld wasn’t sure of anything outside of his own aching, battered, exhausted heart needing Dismas in his life, terrible as it was. 

“You…” Reynauld paused, cleared his voice of the bitterness, the accusation, the  _ hurt _ , and forced himself to continue. “You promised you would stay.”

Dismas looked torn and anguished, not unlike when he saw the gore of Reynauld’s face and chest mere hours ago this morning, a fight or flight instinct caught in limbo, unsure. Audrey looked to them both and turned to allow them meager privacy, though Reynauld was hardly mindful of the world around them in that moment.

“That was before -- ” Dismas started, stopped, shoved his hands in his canvas jacket pockets then tried again with renewed conviction. “It’s for the best, priest. No one else has to die for the Siren.” 

His words didn’t reflect the doubt etched in his tan, exhausted face as Dismas finally met Reynauld’s eyes with that same vulnerability as before, at the cliffs, needing something,  _ anything _ , to be anchored by. Reynauld knew that feeling intimately, and he would give the Highwayman what he could and more, Reynauld swore, turned from the Light as he was for the lost thief before him.

Slowly, Reynauld grasped his good arm and pulled Dismas close. Closer than they had ever been while sober, while unaffected by anything that might stir them to madness, while anything but sane and hyper aware of each other. He wrapped his arms around the Highwayman protectively, who was stiff in his arms at first but breath by breath, muscle by muscle, relaxed against Reynauld’s blood-stained chest. It was familiar, as if they had already done this in a dream, in a nightmare, in a waking reality fraught with danger and violence and death, and this was  _ safe _ . This was safe and invigorating, this had already forgiven Reynauld for his past and future sins, and likewise had forgiven Dismas for his.

With Audrey allowing them rare, meager privacy, eventually Dismas’ arms were around him, fierce and desperate for… Reynauld wasn’t sure, but he pulled Dismas closer all the same until they were flushed together tightly. His chin rested atop Dismas’ head, his hair still slightly damp and smelling of sweat and salt and  _ Dismas _ .

Perhaps Sarmenti had been right about Reynauld, he was reluctant to consider.

This dance between Reynauld and Dismas, back and forth, it was unfair to them  _ both  _ for Reynauld to continue sneaking these secret moments away from the Light, toeing the line of propriety and simple friendship, then lie to himself after to maintain his own holy image. 

Dismas was the first person he had been close to since his own family, the first person Reynauld had been intimate with since Hannah, the first person he had cared for.

Reynauld would kill and die for the Light, and had already proven as much over the course of his too-long life -- he had sacrificed everything that had ever mattered to him thus far, but could he do so again? He wasn’t sure. By now, it was painfully obvious that Reynauld would kill and die for Dismas in equal measure as he would for the holy Flame that guided them, and was now pitted into a fork of his righteous beliefs. 

Must Reynauld really choose one or the other? Again, Sarmenti’s words of criticism rang in his mind. Was the Crusader already doomed to damnation for considering choosing Dismas? Did he even deserve the freedom of choice against his scriptures when he hadn’t made that choice before, with Hannah?

He wasn’t sure how they got here. If Reynauld ever cared to consider it, he wasn’t sure how he and Dismas grew from enemies to friends to… something strange, something forbidden. Something terrible and wonderful and illicit that pulled at Reynauld’s heartstrings and tempted his faith, his devotion to the Light. Something that reminded him of Hannah, something visceral and inhuman yet  _ so  _ human in its nature. Reynauld savored it, wanted  _ more  _ of it every passing day, heady and addictive as it was, wanted to indulge in all that was Dismas, everything the other man might allow him. Unbidden memories of Dismas’ touch on his body haunted him, intoxicated him, made him yearn for that dizzying feeling so ingrained and intuitive and improper of a holy man.

Whatever this was, it was growing between them and he wasn't ready to part with the Highwayman. Reynauld was viciously protective over the other man, he knew, they  _ both  _ knew by now. Reynauld would kill for very little, would die for even less, but he would absolutely render the world in twain for Dismas. That same violence extended to the rest of their small, battle-made family within the Hamlet, but none had pierced Reynauld’s core the way Dismas had.

His scowls, his banter, his merciless and relentless devotion -- not to the Light, but to life itself -- it was something Reynauld had long ago given up on entertaining the idea of. 

Given up on deserving at all.

“I said we would find whatever haunts you, Dismas,” Reynauld whispered to the soft tufts of Dismas’ stark black hair and remembered the way he had grazed his fingers through the long strands the night before, missing their unthinkable closeness behind inebriated confidence. “I intend to keep that promise, so long as you keep yours.”

After a long moment, the Highwayman finally nodded and whispered back, “ _ Okay _ .”

It was a simple word, but Reynauld felt elated until Dismas sharply pulled away from their embrace as another set of footsteps joined them on the bridge, and Reynauld reluctantly stepped back, more confused and desperate than ever as he looked to their newcomer.

Junia was still flushed and strained with exhaustion, her breath coming in heavy pants as she caught up to them, not even bothering to question their compromising proximity.

“If you three are sneaking off to fight the Siren,” she gasped. “You’ll need a healer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm sorry.
> 
> Second of all, I had outlined this chapter from the start, and had actually written it a couple months ago, but have agonized over it since. I originally felt William to be a good First Death for the gang, since he was a First Death on my recent dd save file, but man, did I get attached to him. I really, _really_ contemplated just... having this entire, long-wided fic without any deaths, but that doesn't fit my end goal for Help Wanted.
> 
> I hope you guys like it regardless. Going forward, I'm switching gears back to Dismas. 
> 
> Any feedback is especially needed after this. Thank you for reading still!


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